


Betrayal

by Fruitloop (Fruityloops)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Biting, Bondage, Community: shkinkmeme, Dark, Dark John Watson, Face Slapping, Fanart, First Time, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Groping, M/M, Non Consensual, Non-Consensual Spanking, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Sherlock Whump, Virgin Sherlock, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 66,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruityloops/pseuds/Fruitloop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Watson would show him things, touch him in ways he'd never been touched before, open the man's eyes to the pleasures of the flesh."</p><p>Dark Watson ties a drunk Holmes to the bed and violates him, then keeps him captive in their flat, intent on making him appreciate and return his "love". Graphic Non-con, be cautious if this subject squicks you out. This is NOT a situation between lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: The fantasizing of beautiful things

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Betrayal (translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2333885) by [eikyuuyuki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eikyuuyuki/pseuds/eikyuuyuki)



> This is an old story I started on a year ago, inspired by a prompt on the kink meme set in Ritchieverse. I can't remember the exact details, but something regarding dark Watson raping Holmes, keeping him captive in their flat and generally being creepy. 
> 
> First fic posted to this account, I have a lot of random parts done, feel free to make suggestions. English is not my first language so I might make some weird mistakes once in a while (mostly unbetaed), please alert me if you notice anything strange. I tend to go over my writing contentiously and fix mistakes as I find them, so some passages or words might change a little while after I've posted a new chapter. 
> 
> Each chapter will have a short description of what specific kinks/warnings it includes in the end-notes. Please make sure you check them if you want to avoid triggering material. Everything in this is generally upsetting, disturbing and very nonconsensual.
> 
> If nothing else is stated, this fic is still in progress.

”You're beautiful, you know that Holmes?”

Watson sighed and inhaled deeply into the detective's hair as he let the sweet scent of alcohol and pipe tobacco fill his nose.

His lightly shaking fingers stroked the brow of the sleeping man who laid sprawled out on the bed before him. Holmes had collapsed in a drunken stupor a few minutes ago - Watson's expensive Scotch haven taken quite it's toll on his body.

He smiled as he took in the sight of his friend, lying there on the bed and breathing quietly in and out.

The man's hair was rustled and Watson couldn't stop himself from running a hand through it. He stifled a quiet laugh when Holmes grumbled something in his sleep and shook his head lightly before settling it down on the pillow again. His face was unshaven, and the stubble tickled Watson's lip when he moved down to plant a soft kiss at the corner of the man's mouth.

How he'd waited for this, to finally have the detective beneath him, no one present to interrupt them. He'd planned this for days, sent the landlady away for a week's vacation on his bill to visit an old friend in Bristol. Taken the precautions to properly address the inspector the evening before, informing him that Holmes had come down with bad case of the flu and was regrettably unable to lead the investigation regarding the disturbing discovery of a young woman's head in the Thames.

All appointments with Mary had been put off until next week, leaving him alone with Holmes for the next seven days.

The man on the bed kept on snoring. A small puddle of drool had formed beneath his cheek on the pillow, and Watson stifled a small laugh at the sight . 

Holmes had enthusiastically accepted his offer to drink with him when the he'd suggested it, not paying mind to the fact that Watson only took a few sips of his own glass. If he'd noticed, he hadn't cared. Watson took pride in being one of the only people in the world Holmes wasn't suspicious of.

Holmes had told him of his latest case as they drank, loudly exclaiming that he was on the verge of a breakthrough regarding the murderer's identity. Watson had listened with only half an ear as he'd observed how Holmes' eyes lit up when he talked about the investigation, the way his hands gesticulated in the air as he explained the importance of finding the instrument used to behead the unfortunate woman.

”- and can you believe it Watson, they had not even checked the area around the bridge. _Imbeciles!_ **”**

Watson had taken small sips from his drink now and then, filling Holmes' glass anew as he talked and talked. He'd recognized the effects of the alcohol when Holmes' voice gradually slurred, hand movements comically slow and uncoordinated, dark eyes droopy and tired. The man had bickered at first when Watson suggested he lay down.

” _You_ lay down, Mother hen _._ ”

Holmes kept his stance for ten whole minutes before he eventually allowed Watson to grasp his arm and lead him to the bed, where he'd collapsed and fallen into a deep sleep almost instantly.

Watson savoured the sight of his slack face, his slightly parted lips, the dark eyelashes that flattened against his skin with each exhale of air.

How he'd waited for this.

He stood up and walked out of the room to get the supplies he'd bought the day before. Holmes was still snoring lightly on the bed when Watson returned with the items in hand. A roll of sturdy woolen rope - he needed to restrain his friend, the man would no doubt put up a fight at first, drunk or not, a sharp pair of scissors to cut away undesired clothing, and a small jar of lubricant – he didn't want to injure Holmes unnecessarily.

To his knowledge the detective had never performed any acts of carnal nature, and certainly not with a man. They never spoke of Holmes' sexual desires, and Watson sometimes doubted he had any at all. The thought of being the first to unravel his friend and lay him bare was _exhilarating_.

He placed the items on the night table and moved to sit on the bed next to Holmes' still, peaceful form.

Watson contemplated what he was about to do and what it would mean for the both of them. In his mind, Holmes would eventually accept his advances. Watson knew he'd be scared at first, fearful of his own body, but with a bit of convincing and guidance, he'd comply. Watson was certain of it. The love he felt for the man had to be mutual. The detective wanted him. He only needed for Watson to show him how, to lead the way.

And Watson would show him things, touch him in ways he'd never been touched before, open the man's eyes to the pleasures of the flesh.

_Yes._

Holmes would understand then. He'd look at Watson, intelligent, brown eyes full of adoration and lust for the doctor as he'd offer himself to him. Beg for Watson to take his body, _ravage_ him.

Most of all Holmes would _thank_ Watson, thank him for teaching him the ways of adulthood. Thank him for being such a loving and attentive partner. He'd press himself up against Watson's chest - beg to be taken on the floor. Holmes' soft, ever so expressive, lips tracing the shell of his ear as he'd describe the things he'd do for him. A willing Holmes, lying beneath him, moaning and throwing his head back in pleasure as he was rammed from behind.

The fantasies kept running through Watson's head as he uncoiled the rope from the roll, pulling and testing it, before making a few loops and tying them around Holmes' limp wrists. He fastened them to the headboard and tightened them enough to ensure the man wouldn't be able to wriggle out of the bonds on his own.

Holmes' hands hung limp in their restraints when Watson stepped back to admire him. He had begun groaning a bit when he'd been moved further up the bed, but was now snoring softly again. His overcoat lay discarded beside him, leaving the man in a loose dress shirt - silk cravat still in place around his neck. The garment was tainted with a big discoloured spot on the flip, likely caused by one of Holmes' various chemical experiments. His trousers were slightly chaffed at the knee, stemming from a scuffle with two nameless thugs last Wednesday.

He looked exquisite, lean muscles and ruffled hair, so unlike Watson's own Mary. Watson moved his hand down to rub at the sleeping detective's belly and brushed his fingers over his navel to feel the soft, warm skin beneath the thin cloth. He moved down to unbuckle Holmes' belt while he palmed the man's leg lightly through the fabric. He had to be careful. Watson wasn't keen on accidentally waking Holmes before he was completely ready himself.

The clothes needed to go.

Holmes didn't stir when Watson pulled the belt out of it's loop and grasped his trousers at the waistband. He slowly pulled them down over Holmes' knees and feet and folded them neatly beside the discarded belt, before he bent down to free the man of his shoes and socks. He couldn't help but grope at the detective's legs as he moved his hands over the pale thighs in fascination. His hands lingered at the undergarments for a second, but moved to the man's shirt first. He grabbed the scissors from the night table and cut the fabric away carefully, making sure not to nick the soft skin beneath and wake Holmes in the process.

Watson could feel himself harden when the tattered shirt was discarded with the cravat. The sight of Holmes' bare chest and stomach nearly drove him over the edge. He took a moment to compose himself, calming his breath and taking in the view of the almost-naked, sleeping detective. Holmes' chest lowered and raised with every snored breath and Watson fought the urge to pounce on him without further preparation.

_Not yet.._

He wanted Holmes to wake slowly, to observe every change in his expression and look into the detective's eyes when he realized where he was and what Watson intended to do with him. He licked his dry lips and circled Holmes' left nipple with a finger as he ran his other hand over the soft spot beneath the man's navel. The detective's breath hitched for a second, but he didn't open his eyes or move when Watson snaked his hands down the small hairy trail that led to his manhood, still hidden from his view beneath woolen fabric.

He grabbed the scissors again and began cutting the underwear away with lightly shaking hands. The excitement was almost too much. When the offending garment had been removed, Watson was left with a completely naked Holmes. He hurriedly put the scissors to the side and took his time admiring the detective's privates.

They had often been naked in each other's company, but he'd never been intimately close to Holmes during those moments. Watson's hands hovered over the sensitive flesh and he stuck out a finger out to lightly poke at the head of the man's member. Holmes didn't stir, so he smiled and moved his other hand down to cup the detective's sack. He weighed the soft flesh in his hand for a brief moment before squeezing slightly. Holmes moaned and jerked in his sleep, but still didn't wake.

“God Holmes, if you knew how long I've waited for this.”

He wished he could turn the man over on his belly and touch him, but found it too risky. He wanted to be the first thing Holmes saw when he woke. Watson settled for moving his hands over the pale chest before him instead, pinching a soft nipple and taking delight in the small shudders that came from the man's parted lips.

He moved down to kiss Holmes' neck, his collarbone and jawline, as he placed himself on top of the smaller man to gain better access.

“Hmmnnnh”

Holmes breathed out and bit his lip while his eyelids fluttered in confusion. Watson was barely able to contain his glee when he felt Holmes stir beneath him. The man's movements were slow and barely noticeable, likely due to the alcohol still roaming through his system. Watson watched him intensively. Holmes' breath hitched when he weakly pulled his arms down and found himself unable to lower his hands from the headboard.

The detective mumbled something and made a face before he finally opened his eyes.

Watson smiled at his unfocused gaze and moved his hand forwards to cup his face. Holmes stared at him in drowsy confusion, seemingly not aware of his surroundings. He blinked repeatedly when the hands began stroking his jaw and rubbing at the side of his mouth.

The detective licked his dry lips and asked, as if unsure of himself,

“Watson?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Watson being deluded and fantasizing, tying and feeling an unconscious Holmes up and stripping him of his clothes.


	2. Day 1: The joy of realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now we're getting to the graphic content, and it's not pleasant to say the least.  
> The "real" rape starts here,
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

_The detective licked his dry lips and asked, as if unsure of himself,_

_“Watson?_

Holmes' eyes fought to keep their focus on Watson as he straddled him. They opened and closed repeatedly, glassy and slightly red. He mumbled something inaudible and shook his head, as if to clear his mind from the drunken haze, before his eyes moved slowly away from Watson's eager stare to his own naked body.

His heart skipped a beat when Holmes furrowed his brows and shifted his gaze up to meet his own again. Watson palmed himself through his straining trousers when he felt the man squirm beneath him. The vibrations from the movements moved their way up through his legs and straight to his crotch.

He moved his other hand up to pet the detective's hair and laughed a bit at the way Holmes stared at the appendage as if it was the most peculiar and alien thing he'd ever seen. The man's confusion at the scenery was exhilarating to watch, so unlike his usual demeanor.

A low groan sounded in the room when Holmes shifted in his restrains and pulled his hands forwards weakly. His voice sounded hoarse and slurred once he attempted to formulate a proper sentence.

“Whu..Where.? Wha – whats...watsthis?”

He looked up, startled when he received no answer. Watson breathed in hard through his nose and ran his hand down the side of the detective's face. He couldn't stop himself from moving forwards to press a light kiss to Holmes' cheek, simultaneously pressing the man down into in the mattress when his weight shifted.

Holmes' breath turned ragged when he realized someone was sitting on top of him and pressing a clothed, growing erection against his naked thighs. Watson moaned when Holmes jerked beneath him in an attempt to get up, and the detective's drowsy eyes widened when he found himself unable to do so. Holmes blinked and licked his dry, alcohol stained lips before he addressed his friend again, in a slightly trembling voice.

“Wa..-Watson?”

He moved his hand up to caress Holmes' disoriented face, not quite sure if he wanted to answer and reassure the man of his presence immediately. He wanted to keep this moment going forever, but he decided against keeping quiet. Watson wasn't interested in Holmes thinking him an enemy or stranger.

"Yes old chap, it's me – I've got you”

He studied Holmes' face, and took delight in how the man's breath slowed down upon hearing his reassuring voice. Watson knew Holmes trusted him, he had no reason not to. He had never touched him in any indecent way or acted upon his urges before.

Watson couldn't count the times he'd found himself sporting an embarrassing erection in the company of the detective.  Friendly embraces, shared smiles - the weight of Holmes' hand on his shoulder -” _Watson my dear, I think it's sufficient to say I couldn't have done it without your assistance.”-_

Since the day Holmes first had flashed him _that_ smile, Watson knew he had to have the man. And he'd waited, waited for so long and now-.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when Holmes coughed and flexed his legs.

“M' heavy..Watson- can't move...no shirt?...”

The smell of alcohol radiated off of him. It'd only been a small hour since he'd finished the last glass and he was clearly having a hard time piecing together the situation at hand. Watson decided to go slow at first.

_Mustn't frighten him, be gentle._

He thought over the answer in his head before speaking.

A lie would have to do for now he decided. He needed Holmes to stay subdued and calm, at least until he had him on his stomach. Watson almost regretted not tying the man face down at first, but reminded himself of the utter joy he'd felt when Holmes opened his eyes and looked at him, looked at him with confusion and _neediness_. That moment alone was worth the trouble of having to retie the man.

He lifted himself off of Holmes' legs to sit on the bed beside him.

“No wonder your limbs are heavy, you went and drank yourself into a stupor and passed out. You don't recall?”

Holmes' brow wrinkled as he fought to process this information. Watson could practically hear the gears turning in the detective's mind as he gazed down at his naked body.

“M' clothes...?”

Watson sighed and shot his friend an apologetic look.

“I'm terrible sorry old boy, but you had a little accident. Got sick all over yourself. The scotch went to you head I imagine. I had to get them off of you.”

Holmes frowned and nodded hesitantly,  still trying to focus his eyes on the doctor's face, before he opened his mouth again.

"Bu-.. On my underwear?....socks...?”

Watson cursed inwardly. Heavily intoxicated or not, the man was still Sherlock Holmes. He didn't let his irritation shine through, however, but smiled reassuringly to his friend and patted him lightly on the knee as he answered.

“Ha- no, of course not. You kept complaining about the temperature, insisting that I remove it all. You wouldn't sleep otherwise. I suppose I shouldn't have indulged you, but I didn't imagine you'd go as far as to kick the covers off.”

He bit his lip, watching Holmes' face to see if he bought the lie. He just wanted to be over with the chatter, get the detective on his belly and begin. Holmes shifted his gaze from Watson's face to the discarded bedding on the floor, nodded again and pursed his lips.

“Oh... I see..”

The words went straight to Watson's crotch, and he felt a deep, warm sensation spreading throughout his body and limbs.

 _He trusts me_.

Holmes would surely have been more suspicious, had the lie been uttered by anyone other than Watson.

The detective shifted on the bed and fluttered his hands in their restraints. He groaned when he found himself unable to roll to the side and rest his head, dizziness evident in the way it swayed back and forth on his shoulders. He mumbled under his breath again in a miffed voice.

“Hmmm.. Sumfin on m' wrists..cant move... getitoff- Watson..?”

That was his call. Holmes had given him an opportunity to get the ropes off and reposition him. Watson's hand shook as he moved it up to caress the man's clammy cheek.

“Of course my friend, I’ll have that off of you in no time.”

Holmes mumbled out something akin to a “thank you”, repeated Watson's name a few times, and closed his eyes. Watson was nearly beside himself with excitement as he reached for the scissors and moved them up to cut the man's bonds.

Holmes groaned bit when he was flipped over but stayed put. 

His back was as beautiful as his front - lean muscles moving under the pale skin with every breath. Watson let his eyes eyes trail down from the man's back to his perfectly rounded cheeks, wanting nothing more than to squeeze and feel them moving around him.

_Soon._

He stood up and moved to the night table, cut off a new string of rope with the scissors before he placed them on the table with a light 'clink'. Holmes had gone silent, close to drifting off again, but shifted a bit when Watson gently grabbed his hands and moved the rope under and around them as he made sure not to startle the man. He carefully pulled on the rope when Holmes' wrists were encircled, tightened the knots and secured them to the headboard.

Holmes shifted and blinked sluggishly in Watson's direction when the rope pulled his hands up and together.

“Whu... _getitoff_.. can't sleep likethis..”

Watson stood up, sweating slightly in anticipation. _This is it._

He moved to the back of the room, hidden from Holmes' view and set to quickly disrobing himself. His fingers shook as they struggled to undo the buttons of his dress shirt and trousers. His cock, finally free from it's entrapment, was almost completely hard, heavy and hot in his hand as he gave it a few tugs.

“Watson?”

The headboard creaked when Holmes pulled at his bonds and darted his eyes around in the dark room to locate him. He'd yet to realize Watson's state of undress, and asked for him again with a hesitant voice. Watson licked his dry lips and moved to stand at the foot-end of the bed before he addressed Holmes, still not visible to the man.

“I'm here old friend.”

Holmes jerked and twisted to locate the direction of the voice as he pulled on the ropes again. His breathing sped up when they didn't give, and he pulled harder and began flailing at the knots with his fingers.

“Guh-...get the...rope - help me!”

The man's state of distress was fascinating to watch. His back arched wonderfully when he yanked his arms down with all his strength. Holmes' breath came out in small quick puffs of air, and he kicked his legs weakly as he tried to pull himself up. Watson inhaled and moved his hand forwards to grasp the detective's left ankle. He rubbed the skin with his thumb and revelled in the small gasp that sounded from Holmes in retort.

“Have I ever told you-.”

He paused for a second, to trail his eyes over Holmes' squirming body, before he spoke again, voice having taken on a slightly husky tone.

“Have I ever told you, how absolutely _beautiful_ you look, when you struggle like that?”

Holmes stopped breathing for a second, whole body going rigid at the blink of an eye. Watson tightened his grip on the ankle when the man didn't answer and moved his other hand up to lazily trace his bare leg.

“Have I?”

Holmes swallowed, tried to turn and look at him, failed, and exhaled sharply.

“I – I don't.. _what_?”

His voice was weak, the words barely reached Watson's ears but they pleased him nonetheless. He'd worried Holmes would be too intoxicated to fully grasp what was happening, but the man's initial panic at his question proved him to be quite aware.

He placed a light kiss on the inner side of Holmes' shaking knee before crawling up on the bed and moving into the trembling man's peripheral vision. Holmes' eyes widened slowly when they fixed on Watson's naked body; widened in fear, confusion and pure _shock_ at what they saw.

“...Whe.. Where are your-... what.?”

Watson ignored the stuttered question and moved his hand down to caress the back of Holmes' neck and nuzzle at the soft, short strands of hair.

“God you're beautiful like this.”

He brought his head down to kiss the man's temple and held him down by the shoulder when he shied away. A low, terrified sound came from the detective and he pulled on his bonds again as he shook his head wildly to the side. Watson jerked back with a low curse when the back of Holmes' head collided with his chin. He tightened his grip on the man's shoulders with both of his hands and pressed him down into the mattress in an attempt at calming his panicked struggling.

“No need to fret, I know you've wanted this for as long as I have."

He moved his right hand lower and focused his weight on the left to hold Holmes down.

"You've been waiting for me, haven't you Holmes? I bet no one's ever touched you like this before.”

The man yelped and kicked his legs when Watson's hot palm found his arse and cupped a cheek. He shrieked when the hand squeezed, and fought harder to pull his legs up. His thrashing was weak and uncoordinated, mouth gasping and agape.

“No pleas-”

Watson slapped the hot skin beneath him and grabbed the flesh tightly. He let out a low moan when his cock twitched in response to the startled sob he got in reply.

“Do I have to tie your legs down too?”

The man didn't answer him, but he didn't cease his struggling either - pushing his bare feet against the mattress to pull himself forwards and away, eyes tightly shut and collecting moisture around the edges.

Watson sighed and moved off of Holmes and the bed, standing up and walking around the thrashing man to grab his roll of rope from the table. He cut off a good length and moved down to the foot end of the bed again while working on a loop with his shaking fingers.

“I want you to know I'd preferred not having to resort to restraining you like this, but you give me no choice.”

He averted the kicks being thrown in his direction, grasped the man's flailing right leg and pulled it towards himself to stretch the limb out. Holmes shrieked when the rope tightened around his ankle, effectively rendering him unable to bend his leg or throw Watson off. He tied the end to the bed leg and stood up - face reddened from the struggle.

The detective was yelling at him; unfinished sentences, stuttered pleads and demands. Watson contemplated tying his left leg down, but decided against it. He didn't want Holmes completely immobile, and he wasn't able to do anything offending with only one limb free either way.

He eagerly crawled up on the bed again and traced his hands over Holmes' shivering back to feel the way the muscles fluttered whenever his breath hitched. He couldn't resist, and bent down to kiss and nip at the sweat soaked skin while moving his way down to the man's buttocks.

“Pleas- please stop..”

Holmes shuddered beneath him when he planted a sloppy kiss above the pale cleft. He shoved a pillow beneath the man's hips, raising his rear end and giving Watson better access, before he grasped both cheeks and spread Holmes. He felt his hardened cock give another twitch at the sight of the clenched entrance. 

He couldn't wait to breach the detective, but not without preparation.

“It's a good thing I brought something to ease the way. I fear you might split in two if I tried without.”

Holmes wasn't trying to look at him anymore, but had now shifted all his focus on to the rope. He was huffing and gasping for a air like a fish on land, flopping his free leg uselessly up and down on the mattress as he pulled on the ropes until burns started appearing. He choked on something in his throat when Watson let go of him and reached his hand over to the table, grabbing the jar of lube and unscrewing the cap as he placed himself in between the detective's thighs.

Watson dipped his fingers in the jar, coating them in the fluid before spreading Holmes again. He ignored the soft whine the man let out as he thrashed harder, and rubbed the hot skin beneath him affectionately.  Holmes' panicked voice was louder and less slurred than previously, but his dark eyes were still glazed over and focusing on some spot behind Watson as he begged.

“Stop- You have to stop. I can't-”

The protesting turned into a choked sob when Watson ignored him and moved his fingers forwards to slather the lube around the clenched entrance.

“I know you can Holmes, I trust you to do your best. God, you're perfect!”

He tested the opening with his index finger, rubbing it a few times to loosen the muscles up, before pushing in. Holmes let out a feral sound and threw himself forwards.

" _Watson!_ "

Tears ran down the terrified man's face, and Watson shushed him before pushing the digit in to the knuckle, feeling the tight heat of Holmes' insides as he clenched down. He was practically sobbing, still begging for Watson to stop, to release him, _help him_.

Instead he shoved another finger in and watched as the muscles tightened around them and swallowed the digits up while the surrounding skin began taking on a light, red tint. It was perfect, everything he'd ever wanted. Holmes was warm and hot beneath him and _so tight_. He couldn't wait to switch his fingers for his cock.

Holmes let out a high-pitched screech when he added a third finger and twisted it upwards. The detective tried kicking him again, but was stopped by another harsh thrust that caused the skin to tear a bit with the force. Watson ignored the wails from beneath him and began pumping his fingers in and out of the orifice.

A tiny bit of blood clung to the digits when they moved out. The body beneath him was impossibly tight and constantly clamping down with every movement. Holmes was openly crying now - snot and tears running down his face and smearing the pillow beneath him.

They kept this up for a few minutes, The detective crying and struggling beneath him as Watson prepared him forcefully - scissoring and spreading the entrance, making him ready for what was to come.

Holmes shuddered when the fingers slipped out, and took a short pause from his thrashing to breathe. Watson ran his hand down the small of the man's back, before he dipped his fingers in the jar again - moving them forwards to apply more lube in and around the orifice. He sat back, satisfied with his preparations and covered his own erection with the fluid. He took a deep breath and moved further up the mattress once sure it was completely slick.

Holmes flinched and shook his head when Watson hugged him from behind - a string of panicked noes sounding aloud in the room. Watson shushed him and grasped his hip with one hand to pull him closer. He slipped his other under the detective, palming at his stomach and moving it down to grasp Holmes' limp member. He smiled as he took note of how Holmes' begging sped up at the action - garbled and unstructured anew. The man's eyes were wild and glassy, and he closed them tightly in desperation whenever he pulled on the rope, trying to push himself up, get away. He _understood._

“Ohgod – stop- I- Whatever you want- _please!_ ”

Watson leant down to kiss Holmes' shoulder and taste the sweaty, hot skin. There was nothing,  _nothing,_  he wanted more than the man before him _._ He just couldn't get enough of him. He bit down lightly and squeezed Holmes' member when he jerked away in response. Watson licked the reddened mark he'd created and moved up to kiss Holmes' temple before he pushed him down into the mattress, arse up in the air.

Holmes' breathing was rapid and shallow when Watson spread him roughly again. He jerked and tried to pull his thighs together but the rope holding his right leg in place didn't give.

“Shhhh Holmes, you need to relax, it'll hurt if you don't.”

Watson felt his own sack pull up tight against his body in anticipation. He grasped his cock and slid it in between the trembling cheeks to finally nudge at the lubricated entrance. He couldn't stop himself from moaning when Holmes fought harder. The vibrations from the struggles moved up through their tangled bodies and straight to his cock. He pushed himself forwards, slowly, and panted harshly when Holmes instantly clenched down.

The sensation was unlike anything Watson had ever tried before. He'd never dare ask Mary to indulge in something such as this, she was fragile, not like Holmes. _Not Sherlock_. Watson had never been forceful with his fiance in bed, always thoughtful and gentle when handling her. Only Holmes brought these urges out in him.

Something about the man both infuriated and fascinated him. He wanted to draw out every sound, reaction and expression possible from the shivering body on the bed.

“Please John-”

Holmes drew in a harsh sob and turned his head from the pillow to look him in the eye.

“You have to stop.." Another hitch in his breath. "It _hurts_.”

Hearing his birth name being sobbed out in the room almost drove him mad with want. He'd never felt as connected to another human being as he did in that moment. Holmes would understand, eventually, but for now, he needed to be shown.

“Shhhh, calm down old fellow, this is quite usual. It'll feel good in a moment.”

Holmes shook his head again and arched his back when Watson curiously pushed further into him.

“No.. no-.. John _STOP!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Fingerfucking  
> Forced penetration  
> Crying, lots of crying
> 
> It's only going downhill from here.


	3. Day 1: The pleasures of sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Non-con porn, that's all this chapter is. 
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

_Holmes shook his head wildly and arched his back when Watson curiously pushed further into him._

_“No.. no-.. John STOP!”_

The wretched sounds Holmes made when he pushed in only fueled Watson's determination. He couldn't wait. He had to be fully inside the man _now_. He grasped Holmes' hips and held him in place as he lent down to whisper in his ear.

“I love you, if only you knew how much-... God I love you.”

Holmes screamed when he pushed in - eyes rolling back in his head. Watson held him down and moved his hips to sink further into the tight, hot passage. The feel of it was incredible, better than anything he'd ever tried with a woman.

He stopped for a moment, holding still to simply feel Holmes' insides tighten and squirm around the head of his cock. He gazed down at the man's sweat-glistening back, observing how his perfectly rounded cheeks squeezed his shaft with every frantic jerk. _Beautiful._

The detective wouldn't stop screaming though. Watson frowned, this could prove to become quite the problem. The streets outside were silent. Their neighbours were used to violin music and strange customers at late hours, but some might still be alerted by the noise. He grasped Holmes by the hair and pushed him down to smother his cries in the mattress below. The man thrashed - muffled screaming still audible, but not to anyone outside of the room.

Watson pondered what to do as Holmes fought beneath him, tugging on his restraints till his wrists bled and howling into the bedding as if possessed. He had to find something else to keep him quiet with. The smothering was a bad long term solution, and he didn't intend on suffocating the man or rendering him unconscious. Watson gazed at the silk cravat on the night table and wrenched Holmes up by his hair as he made to grab for it. Holmes gasped for air and coughed and spit to clear his throat. His tear-stained face was red and flustered - eyes wide open in panic at the prospect of being pushed down again.

“Don't- don't- please!”

Holmes' lip was quivering, eyes big and glistening with tears as he sobbed out the words. Watson had seldom seen the detective cry like this, and the sight was captivating. He moved down, inhaled deeply through his nose as Holmes shifted around him, and kissed a shivering, wet cheek.

“How I wish that we'd done this a long time ago. To think-”

He paused for a second to catch his breath and moaned when Holmes shook and clenched down on him, before speaking again.

“To think we've been denying ourselves this for all of those years. I tell you, it's almost a sin!”

Holmes kept sobbing quietly as Watson nuzzled him and planted hot, wet kisses across the sweaty skin of his face and neck. The detective closed his eyes tightly when he moved up to kiss him on the mouth - forcing his tongue in and wriggling it around. Holmes gagged and bit down, and Watson reeled back with a yell as his hand shot to his bleeding mouth in surprise. He snarled and slapped Holmes across the face in petty revenge before stuffing his mouth with the cravat.

 _Why would he_ do _that?_

Holmes started bucking and shaking his head beneath him while trying to spit out the fabric. Watson swore and held him down as he reached to the side to grab a a discarded sleeve from the detective's ruined shirt. He pulled the thrashing man up by his hair and set to tying it tightly around his head - keeping the gag in place and stretching the corners of his mouth till they tore with the force of it.

He looked down at Holmes - slight anger evident in his face and tone of voice.

“Biting Holmes? How very childish of you."

Watson moved his hand down, taking hold of the detective's scrotum and squeezing slightly - intent on punishing the man for his misdeed. Holmes howled in response but ceased his struggling. Watson smiled in approval and stroked the hot flesh, observing how Holmes' nostrils flared with every exhalation. The man tried pushing his thighs together but the restraints prevented it - leaving him spread wide and pinned down for Watson's enjoyment. He fondled Holmes' sack for a few minutes, occasionally reaching down to give his soft cock a light tug that caused the detective to clench and tighten around his tip in response. Yes, he couldn't wait any longer.  

Watson grasped Holmes' thighs again and pushed forwards, watching as his cock slowly slid further in between the pale, shaking cheeks. Holmes let out a loud sob from behind the gag and twisted his lower body in attempt at dislodging him, but he stayed put, inhaling deeply before thrusting forwards once more and completely burying himself inside the man, root to arse. Holmes screamed into the gag and pressed himself down hard into the mattress. His breath was coming out in small pained hiccups - partially muffled by the fabric lodged in his mouth.

Watson lent down to inhale the sweet smell of sweat and alcohol that radiated off of the man before he whispered in his ear.

“I won't hold it against you. I know you're scared, I know. But God, Holmes.. You're perfect. Just perfect.”

Holmes shook his head weakly when Watson moved his hands to cup his trembling face - darting out a thumb to trace the tear tracks running down his red cheeks.

“Even when you cry you're beautiful. _So perfect_.”

He withdrew for a second, grabbed the detective's free leg and pulled it to the side for better access, before he pushed in to the hilt again. Holmes' whole body convulsed beneath him and he let out another muffled shriek - eyes rolling till the whites showed. 

Watson was panting heavily. Sweat dripped from his forehead and onto Holmes' shaking back when he started fucking the man in earnest. He pulled the leg in his hand slightly upwards, grasped Holmes' hip in a vice grip with the other, and set to thrusting in and out of the tight heat at a fast, controlled pace. He ignored the wailed, muffled protests from beneath him and pushed in hard, not taking notice when tiny smudges of blood started appearing on his cock.

He couldn't stop himself or slow down. It was too much.

It was heaven. 

The hysteric, high pitched whines Holmes let out at every thrust only furthered his need to come inside of the man. He could feel the start of an orgasm building, and began speeding up his movements - thrusting frantically into the hot, slick passage below. Holmes' body moved with him and his arms hung limply from the headboard - skin chaffed and bloody near the rope. He breathed in hard through his nose with every forceful pull and closed his eyes tightly while hiding his face in the mattress.

The bed creaked with every thrust - adding to the combined sound of harsh panting and skin slapping against skin. Watson pulled Holmes back with him when he felt his body seize up. He'd never experienced such intense pleasure in his life. Only a few more thrusts and he'd reach oblivion.

He hugged Holmes close to him, getting inside as deep as possible, before he let himself go. He groaned the detective's name as he came and held him tightly against his chest. Holmes wailed when Watson's release shot into him -  his spend joining the mix of lube and blood already present. A bit of it managed to slide past his softened member, still lodged inside of Holmes, and was now slowly dripping down the man's legs and onto the mattress.  

He kept thrusting into the slack body beneath him for a while, whispering and moaning into the man's ear as he emptied himself before he collapsed on top of him, too spent to move. His nose was buried in the detective's sweaty hair and he pressed himself down against Holmes' back, heavily panting and basking in the afterglow of his orgasm.

“God I love you. You did splendid Holmes, absolutely perfect.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Smothering with a pillow and gagging  
> Ejaculation  
> Fondling and kissing
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments, i'll try and update as quickly as i can. Exams are coming up, but i sort of write on this in my free time to blow steam off.


	4. Day 1: The cleansing of the mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson ponders and rages over Holmes' drug addiction while getting him ready for bed.
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"this is used for whole sentences when they're happening in the past"_

  _His nose was buried in the detective's sweaty hair and he laid there for a while, heavily panting and basking in the afterglow of his orgasm._

_“God I love you. You did splendid Holmes, absolutely perfect.”_

The man beneath him shuddered and closed his eyes tightly while a low, pitiful moan worked it's way through the gag to Watson's ears. He shifted on top of Holmes and smiled as he felt his softened cock move with ease through the slickly mess of the man's insides. Soon Holmes would need no preparation and the act itself would hurt less, _soon_ he'd be open for the pleasures Watson was willing to grant him.

He moved down to kiss the man again while taking hold of his tied wrists to rub at the chaffed skin. Holmes jerked a bit when Watson trailed his fingers down his bare arms and tickled the inner side of his elbow, but was otherwise silent. He frowned when he felt several bumpy puncture wounds under his fingers from where Holmes had injected his precious cocaine.

They'd had plenty of arguments - in this very room - surrounding the man's addiction and abuse of the drug. It angered him, seeing his friend dirtying his own brilliant mind and body with the stimulant.

How many times had he not come home to find Holmes sprawled on the floor, babbling about _God- knows-what_ and barely recognizing his face and voice? He'd always stare at Watson when he helped him to sit, wild eyes searching for hidden clues in his face, as if he was something to be deducted and analyzed. The detective would sometimes lean against him, grasp the lapels of his coat with shaking hands and pull him close. He'd hide his pale face in the crook of Watson's neck as he spoke to him of hidden numbers and moving shadows, voice panicked and hushed.

_“It's all there Watson. It's all in place. The evidence- I knew it- you must help me! You must- I didn't see it before, but now- now...”_

Holmes would trail off then, still clutching Watson's coat and mumbling to himself, shaking his head and constantly blinking his eyes.

“ _I don't understand. Watson-.. I don't- oh God- and the dial- I didn't see.. I didn't- I swear to you Watson, had I known- you must believe me!”_

He'd usually have no idea what the detective was babbling about. Holmes would dismiss his questions regarding the episode the day after and he'd defend himself angrily if Watson pressed on, or God forbid, mention his disdain for Holmes' drug usage.

“ _For God's sake man! Why can't you leave it alone? Do you take pleasure in bothering me with your irrelevant bickering?_ _I do as I please, you have no authority over me!”_

Watson could still see Holmes in his mind, as he'd stood there before him in the doorway, face flustered and red. He'd moved to stand up, to stop the man from departing in anger, but Holmes had quickly shut the door on him - leaving the apartment in an angry huff. Watson had contemplated running after him. He'd wanted to shake the man, yell into his face, _explain_ to him.

He tightened his grip on Holmes' bare arm.

Seeing the wounds and remembering their previous argument angered him. Why would the man not listen? He pinched the hot skin and smiled when Holmes jerked in response. He'd rid his friend of this obsession, he decided, this  _filth._ Holmes would thank him in time, thank him for everything. He would have no further use for the drugs anymore, not with Watson taking care of him.

“Don't worry old friend, these-”

He ran his fingers over the bruised marks, before squeezing the arm again.

“These wounds will from now on only serve as a reminder of your previous life. Because I promise you Holmes-”

He lent in to whisper in the man's ear as he held his arm tight in his grip.

“I promise you... I will _not_ stand back and watch as you destroy yourself. Never again. Do you understand?”

Holmes was quiet under him - head turned away into the pillow below. Watson sighed in annoyance. The man was insufferable in his stubbornness. He moved his hand up to squeeze the restrained wrists and watched as fresh blood welled up from beneath the torn-up skin. Holmes would have to learn to answer him back one way or the other, this simply wouldn't do in the long run.

Holmes whined into the bedding beneath him, but did not move or answer. His hands shook slightly in their restraints as the blood began seeping out from the wounds being reopened by Watson's harsh grip.

“Answer me. Do you understand?”

The detective shrieked when Watson applied more weight to the wrists, and warm blood coated the tips of his fingers as he pushed down. Holmes nodded frantically and groaned something inaudible from behind the gag. Watson let go when he got his answer and pet Holmes' wet cheek while rubbing at the sore corners of his mouth. The cravat had dug itself into the skin every time the detective had opened his mouth to scream, probably causing him a great deal of annoyance, if not hurt.

Watson sighed and kissed him through the gag. He wanted to stay like this forever, inside Holmes, just touching and feeling him, but he knew he had to make them both ready for the night. It was still pitch black outside, several hours till morning. _Safety before pleasure, you're a doctor._ Holmes had to be cleaned and checked for injures, a small puncture in the skin of his inner walls could cause infection or worse.

Watson ran his thumb over Holmes' tied lips before he lent up to whisper in the detective's ear again.

“Does it hurt?”

Holmes opened his eyes and looked at him. They were glassy and red, slightly glazed over and seemingly not focusing. Watson wondered for a moment if the man was in shock, but decided it might actually be for the best. Holmes would be easier to subdue this way, and he needed him to be still. He reminded himself, that the man was still most likely heavily intoxicated, even though he'd sobered up a bit during the middle of the act. 

“If you promise to behave I'll remove the gag for a bit. You must be thirsty.”

Holmes looked at him again, cracked lips working beneath the fabric in his mouth. 

“I need to clean you, make sure you're well before we settle down for the night. Can I trust you to stay silent? No struggling. Can you do that for me?”

A moment passed. Holmes' fearful eyes darted from his face to the door in the corner before he slowly nodded his head. Watson smiled and moved his hand up to untie the shirt holding the gag in place - pulling the cravat out to let Holmes breathe properly. The detective coughed and spit when his mouth was released. He took in big harsh gulps of air and moved his hazy gaze towards Watson quickly when he moved again, much like a frightened animal in distress. 

"See dear friend, it's much better when you comply. I'll get you that water."

He reluctantly pulled out of Holmes to stand up, cock dripping wet with his spend and lube - small spots of blood still sticking to the head. Watson quickly dried the sticky mess off with another part of Holmes' destroyed shirt.  He bent down to kiss the man, and frowned when Holmes flinched away and pushed himself into the headboard of the bed while hiding his face in the pillow. Watson sighed and resorted to patting his friend on the left buttock before he walked around the bed and out of the room. He steered towards the kitchen, positive that Holmes was too tired to defy him.  

He could hear small, muffled sniffling sounds and choked sobs coming from the open door when he returned, glass of water in hand and towels draped over his shoulder. He'd only been out of the room for a few minutes and Holmes had stayed put as promised - head pressed against the pillow, sobs muffled, but still present. The detective visibly tensed when Watson moved his hands to his shoulder, but willingly moved and opened his mouth when the glass of water was pushed to his bruised lips.

Watson held the glass patiently as Holmes drank, moving his fingers soothingly through the man's dark hair, wiping at his tears and praising him when he managed to finish it all without spilling.

“Good man, you're doing great. Great.”

He set the empty glass down and stood up to pull out his Gladstone bag from under a stack of hastily scribbled notes in Holmes' handwriting. He put the bag on the bed beside Holmes and rummaged through it, getting out the things he needed. A short needle, thin thread and a pot of soothing, cleansing cream for particularity sore skin.

He chewed his lips as he gazed down at the man's rear. A small puddle of blood had formed between Holmes' legs, sticking to his thighs and leaking out from the reddened entrance, and Watson felt a pang of guilt at the sight. He hadn't intended to cause his friend unnecessary pain. Watson had hoped for Holmes to enjoy his first sexual experience, but that plan had been thwarted by the man's panicked struggling and his own eagerness.

Holmes whimpered and jerked when Watson grabbed his free leg and moved it to the side for better access, spreading his cheeks to get a look at the damage he'd caused. It wasn't as bad as the amount of blood indicated; the area was red and torn in a few places, but nothing a few stitches couldn't fix. Holmes hadn't been permanently damaged.

Watson set to cleaning the man's thighs and opening, gently washing off the blood and drying the skin with a soft towel. Holmes was quiet throughout the ordeal, didn't attempt to move his legs or shake Watson off.

He made sure every last drop of blood, semen and lubricant was gone before he discarded the towel and grabbed his needle and thread.

Holmes started whimpering when the needled moved near the damaged skin. He buried his head in the pillow as Watson stitched him up, muffling a pained wail whenever Watson pulled at a thread or slid the needle into his sensitive flesh. He was shaking horribly once the doctor had finished, tears running down his face anew. Watson patted his behind reassuringly and moved his other hand around to open the pot of cream on the bed.

“There there old friend, this will help.”

Holmes didn't move or answer when the lubricant was applied to his sore opening, soothing and cooling down the irritated skin.

"It'll fasten the healing process and prevent infection."

He jerked a bit when more of the cool liquid was smeared over his bloody wrists and chaffed ankle. Watson frowned when his fingers reached the bottom of the small pot and cursed himself for not checking his supply earlier. He'd be needing more if he was to keep Holmes' wrists free of infection, but It would have to do for now.

 “All done now, much better wouldn't you say so?"

Watson patted the man's behind, ignoring the way Holmes' lip quivered and how his back tensed at the touch. The detective laid unmoving on the bed while Watson packed his things away, red eyes constantly fixed on his face. They widened when Watson picked up the discarded cravat from the bed.

"No!"

Holmes started bucking and shook his head weakly to the side. His voice was hoarse and desperate, and panicked sobs began working their way up through his throat as he begged.

 “John-I'-I'll be quiet I promise, _don't-_!”

Watson ignored his pleading and shoved the fabric into the open mouth before tying it tightly in place with the ruined sleeve again. Holmes wriggled and thrashed weakly on the bed, but settled when Watson sneered and smacked him across the face. He grasped the detective's jaw as he moved himself closer.

 "You're tired dear friend, today's been hard on you I know. We both need sleep, we can talk tomorrow”

He moved his hands up to check the restraints, making sure they were securely in place, before he curled up behind Holmes. He ignored the man's muffled sobbing and pushed his soft cock up in between his shaking cheeks to watch as his head stretched the lubricated opening. Holmes whined when the cock slipped in, but stayed completely silent otherwise - breath coming out in small, sharp bursts from his nose. Watson sighed happily and secured one arm over Holmes' chest to clutch him tightly against his own.

Holmes moaned and clenched down when Watson's other hand found his limp cock and grasped it. He chuckled and moved his fist down the man's shaft before he gently cupped his sack and ran his fingers over the hot flesh in slow, circling motions. Holmes' breathing sped up from behind the gag and his whimpering increased, but he loosened up and sagged in Watson's grip - not nearly as tense as before.

Satisfied, Watson kissed his neck and settled for spooning him - cock snugly pressed against the detective's cheeks - hand fondling and groping his privates. Holmes had stayed soft throughout the whole night, and he had to admit he was a little disappointed at that, he'd have to ensure Holmes achieved release next time. Once he'd experienced the same pleasure as Watson had, he'd surely understand.

Watson sighed and stretched his legs. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the indescribable feel of Holmes stretching around him - the systematic sound of his laboured breath carrying the doctor off to sleep.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes Watson:  
> Cleaning and fixing Holmes up (there's stitching and blood involved, but not very detailed or graphic)  
> Falling asleep still inside of him.


	5. Day 2: The bitter taste of silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson wakes feeling refreshed, but Holmes is in a sour mood. 
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

_Watson sighed and stretched his legs. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep, was the amazing feel of Holmes stretching around him, the systematic sound of his laboured breath carrying the doctor off to sleep._

He woke to the soothing sound of early morning chatter and chirping birds coming from the streets below. The sun shone brightly through the tinted windows and bathed his face in a warm, pleasant light.

Watson yawned and stretched his legs. He smiled in delight when he felt himself harden. He'd stayed inside Holmes throughout the night - soft cock nudged in between the man's cheeks. It was still a tight fit, almost as good as when he'd first entered him, and Watson felt a deep warmth surging to his crotch at the thought of the previous night.

He opened his eyes to look at Holmes and moved a hand up to gently stroke his hair. The detective was awake and quietly crying into the pillow below, back shaking with suppressed sobs. He wondered if the man had even slept.

Holmes' whole body tensed and his breathing turned ragged for a short moment when he felt Watson's cock stir inside of him. He squirmed and whined into the gag, but his hands remained limp in their restraints. Watson smiled to himself. Holmes was most likely hangover and sore from the night they'd shared.

He wasn't ready for another round just yet.

Watson gazed up at the man's bloody wrists. The skin was inflamed and torn in several places; they needed attending to. He wished he'd brought more cleansing ointment for the wounds. He'd be forced to leave the apartment to buy more; thus also abandoning the detective.

Watson chewed on his lip in annoyance. Could he risk leaving Holmes here? What if the man got loose or somehow managed to further his injuries?

_No._

He couldn't just ignore the damage. Those wrists needed bandaging and cleaning, his friend _needed_ him. He looked down at the detective again. The man looked exhausted - face red and puffy from crying, limbs weak and heavy from being tied down for so long. He wouldn't be able to get out of the restraints on his own, let alone call for help. He had never seen his friend so helpless,  _dependent_. It excited him.

Watson sighed and rolled his hips slightly - revelling in the muffled sounds Holmes made in response. 

He wanted to take the man again right there on the spot, but the doctor in him couldn't ignore the wounded wrists. Holmes needed his medical attention, they'd had plenty of time for fun afterwards. He smiled at the thought. Perhaps Holmes would be more reasonable to talk to then. Surely he'd understand that Watson cared for him, was helping him, _loved him_.

He couldn't stop himself from moaning when Holmes involuntary clenched down on the tip of his head. He thrust forwards a bit and sunk into the warm heat below. The detective shrieked when the hard cock hit a sore spot inside of him - rubbing at a stitch or scratch. Watson shushed him and pet his hair before he pulled out. No, Holmes definitely wasn't ready for another round.

He sat back and looked down with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry dear, seems I got a bit carried away. I know. It hurts too much now. We'll wait with that for later.”

Holmes whined and mumbled something into the gag when Watson kissed him on the cheek. He bent his head down to lick at the man's ear as he began stroking himself. Holmes turned his head away and shut his eyes tightly, and Watson cupped his face to look at him. He patted the detective impatiently on the chin - dead set on capturing his attention.

“Holmes?”

Holmes' eyelids remained shut - lashes sticky and wet with tears. Watson growled and grasped his face harder, digging his nails into the skin as he spoke.

“Look at me Sherlock.”

A few seconds passed before Holmes complied and opened his eyes. Fear, betrayal and, _something_ close to anger, met Watson's curious gaze. They were glassy and red, full of self pity and misery. He'd definitely spent the past few hours crying. Watson tugged at the cock in his hand - panting a bit with every pull of the hot flesh. He'd have to finish himself before leaving. Holmes would understand, wouldn't deny him this pleasure. He licked his lips and ran his other hand over Holmes' trembling back, smiling to himself when the muscles twitched at the touch. 

The detective might be too sore for a proper fucking, but there was many other ways in which he could satisfy himself.

He set to simply nudging the tip of his head at the man's red entrance, circling and poking at it, but never going in. Holmes protested slightly from behind the gag, but he didn't move or pull on the restrains when Watson rubbed his cock against his opening and cheeks. He fisted himself for a few minutes before he set to dry humping the man beneath him - hard cock leaving a small trail of precome against Holmes' shaking thighs every time he thrust it against the hot skin.

The detective gagged and squirmed as he was pushed further down into the mattress. Watson moaned into Holmes' ear and held him down as he moved - grinding and rubbing up against his trembling body. He closed his eyes and panted against the man's twitching back. He was almost ready. Holmes shut his eyes and turned his face away when he was kissed again. Watson ignored the rejection and pulled him closer as he felt his body tighten in ecstasy.

“God I love you. I love you. Holmes I-”

He thrust forwards once more and came with a low groan - painting the man's thighs and entrance with his spend. Holmes was silent and constantly pressing himself down into the mattress while hiding his face in the pillow below. Watson stayed on top of him for a while, lazily stroking his legs and lower back and taking in the way his shoulders moved with every shaky intake of breath. He eventually sat up and looked down, still running his hands over the detective's unmoving body while he spoke.

“You're so beautiful like this.”

Watson couldn't stop himself from grasping one of Holmes' soft, rounded buttocks and squeezed it lightly as he spoke.

“I wish I could keep you company all day dear boy, but I need to get you something for those wrists.”

Holmes didn't acknowledge him or move his head. Watson furrowed his brow and stroked the detective's behind - sticking a finger out to lightly prod at his balls. The man's unwillingness to reply annoyed him. He hated it when his friend gave him the silent treatment. He addressed Holmes again in a sweet and calm voice .

“I bet you haven't eaten anything since I forced that piece of toast into you yesterday. Would you like me to get something for you before I leave?”

Holmes squirmed when Watson's hand grasped his member, but still didn't answer. Watson huffed and shook his head in disappointment. The man just didn't know when to give up. He pulled on the cock in his hand in frustration and drew out a muffled gasp from Holmes.

“I asked you something. Are you hungry?

Holmes didn't turn his head or move from the pillow, openly ignoring him. Watson stroked the flesh beneath him as he waited for a reaction. 

“Will you at least look at me?”

Holmes shifted a bit when the grip around his cock tightened, but still didn't answer.

"Holmes?"

_Nothing._

Watson sneered and removed his hand with a sour face. _So be it._

“Suit yourself. Acting like a child will get you nowhere. We'll discuss this dispute once I return.”

He angrily stood up and cleaned himself off with a towel, hastily redressing and never taking his eyes away from the detective's still form on the bed. Holmes didn't make a move or sound as Watson cleaned him off of come and checked his restrains. He tightened the knots a little harder than needed, but one could never be too careful. Watson paused when he got to the rope holding the detective's right leg in place.

He'd thought about untying it before leaving, to let Holmes relax the strained limb, but had quickly decided against it. The man didn't deserve the freedom of his legs after his previous impudence, refusing to answer him like that.

Watson felt his hands tighten into fists.

How dare Holmes ignore him. As if Watson's concern meant nothing to him at all!

He looked down at his friend again and swallowed when he felt a knot forming in his throat.

Watson knew he was in the right, yet he felt somewhat guilty about leaving the detective alone, if even for a short time. Holmes could get awfully bored if left to himself with nothing to do. He reassured himself that Holmes would be fine.  _It'll only be an hour, he's not a child. He'll manage._ Perhaps a bit of alone time would help him clear his mind of the alcohol, straighten his head.

“Don't worry old chap, I won't be gone for long.”

He kissed Holmes' clammy shoulder and walked to the door - stopping once at the entrance to address him again in a low voice. 

“I trust you to behave yourself while I'm out?”

His eyes lingered on the detective's back. It wasn't a question as much as a threat, but he wanted a response from the man nonetheless. Holmes didn't react - defying him with his silence once again.

Watson exhaled sharply and grit his teeth.

Holmes' stubbornness angered him beyond belief at times. He had no intentions of drugging him, unless he found it absolutely necessarily, but Holmes' unwillingness to work with him was becoming incredibly bothersome. He straightened himself before speaking again - voice stern and trembling with suppressed rage. 

“Will you answer me or should I get the chloroform?” 

That earned him a reaction. Holmes shook his head in response to the threat - something akin to a “please” sounding from behind the gag.  

“You'll be good then?”

Holmes grew quiet. He pulled weakly at his bonds one last time, before he slowly nodded his head - face still hidden from Watson's view in the pillow. Watson's lip twitched upwards in satisfaction and he grasped the handle, gave Holmes' still body one last glance, and finally stepped out.

“Good, I'll be back in no time.”

With that he shut the door, leaving the detective gagged and tied face-down on the bed. Left alone with his thoughts to reflect over the passing night.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Dry humping  
> Dark/Watson being a dickwad


	6. Day 2: The shock of rejection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes doesn't react well to Watson's advances, hurtful things are said and done. 
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

_“Good, I'll be back in no time.”_

_With that he shut the door, leaving the detective gagged and tied face-down on the bed. Left alone with his thoughts to reflect over the passing night._    

Gladstone greeted him when he unlocked the front door, groceries and today's newspaper in hand, and Watson smiled and bent down to pet the dog. He'd fed him before leaving, but had otherwise been neglecting the poor thing for the whole day.

It suddenly dawned on him that he hadn't included Gladstone in his plans at all. He'd have to make time later to walk him. Watson set his bags down and removed his overcoat and hat after shutting the door behind him. Gladstone instantly jumped at him, soiling his left pant leg with drool and spittle and trying in vain to get closer to his face.

“Heel boy, let's go and check on Sherlock shall we?”

He grabbed the pot of cream from the bag, scratched the dog on the head and lead the way up the stairs.

The bulldog grunted happily and followed him as it tried to keep up with Watson's fast steps towards the bedroom door. He paused when he reached it - hesitating and hovering his hand over the handle.

He'd been thinking about Holmes' disobedience and what to do about all the way to the pharmacy and back. Would the man be more inclined to talk now? Perhaps Holmes had finally come to his senses, was ready to admit he wanted more, _wanted_ Watson.

He swallowed and grasped the handle with his sweaty palm. His entire body was shaking with anticipation. Gladstone barked in excitement and ran past him as soon as he opened the door - bent on getting to Holmes first.

The room was completely silent, just as he'd left it, but the arrangement on the bed was not.

Watson gasped and nearly dropped the items in his hands in shock at the scene. Holmes was still secured to the headboard -  _thank God_ - but not in the condition he had left him in. The wounds on his wrists had been bad enough before, but know they looked a gory mess of mangled flesh and skin.

A dark trail of blood, so much worse than an hour ago, ran down the man's pale arms - dripping onto the mattress and colouring the white linen deep red. Holmes had obviously not stayed calm in his absence as he'd promised. Watson cursed under his breath. Damn Holmes and his inability to do as told!

The detective himself was lying in an exhausted heap on the bed, back sweaty and lightly shaking. It looked as if he'd collapsed spontaneously during his struggles, too tired keep up fighting his restraints.

Watson walked closer and shooed Gladstone when the dog jumped at the bed. The detective didn't stir or move, he most likely hadn't even noticed them entering the room.

Holmes' breath came out in small, quick puffs through his nose, as if he couldn't get enough air in. He'd fought like mad to get out of the bonds, pulled so hard the headboard had cracked in several places. Watson shook his head when he got a closer look at Holmes' secured hands. The detective's left thumb had been pulled out of its socket during his frantic struggle for freedom and Watson grimaced at the sight. The digit was swollen and slightly purple in colour, uncontrollably shaking and twitching in its bonds.

_Oh Holmes.._

The pillows and sheets had been kicked to the floor as a result of the man's desperate thrashing and Watson growled at the sight of the mess. He thanked himself for not taking pity on the detective and granting him the freedom of his right leg as he ran his hand over the bound ankle - taking in the damage of the skin near the rope. It wasn't as bad as the hands, but still bleeding quite a bit.

Holmes hadn't been able to free himself from the gag, fortunately. Watson had no doubts he'd screamed himself hoarse, judging by the state of him. The detective's left arm was red and chaffed from where he'd contentiously rubbed his face against it in an attempt at loosening the fabric.    

Watson looked down at the pitiful sight on the bed and grit his teeth in frustration. This could not go unpunished. Not only had Holmes defied him, but he'd also caused permanent damage to himself. The wounds would scar, Watson was sure of it.

He placed the cream on the night table and moved to sit next to Holmes' collapsed body on the bed. Taking care of the man's injuries was his first priority.

The detective stirred when Watson ran his fingers through his sweat soaked hair - whispering his name and stroking the shell of his ear. Holmes' eyes fluttered for a second before opening. They instantly fixed on Watson's face with a wide, startled stare.

“It's all right Holmes, I'm back. I'm here. Let me help you with that.”

He smiled down at the man, despite the anger he felt surging through him, and moved his hand forwards to tug at the sleeve holding the gag in place. Holmes didn't move or struggle, but kept his gaze locked on Watson as he struggled with untying the fabric. He drew in a sharp breath of air when the cravat was removed, still staring up at him with a strange look in his eyes.

Watson smiled and stroked Holmes' cheek with one hand and moved the other down to rest on his clammy shoulder.

“I apologize for leaving you alone here old friend. I should have known you'd disobey, you usually do. Don't worry, I'll take care of it. I'll fix it. You can explain to me when I'm done.”

Holmes shifted and licked his dry lips, as if to say something, and Watson moved his head closer while smiling cheerily down at the man.

“Yes dear?”

His smile was wiped off of his face in an instant when a bloody gobble of spit hit him in the eye. Startled, he moved a hand to the spot, before looking up. 

Watson almost reeled back from the raw look of hatred he saw in Holmes' eyes and face. The detective's lips were slightly trembling and wet with spittle, and his hands were balled into shaking fists. His voice was hoarse and raw when he spoke, full of barely suppressed rage.

“Release me this instant!”

Watson stared at the man in shock, then down at his own fingers, now coated in Holmes' saliva from where he'd dried it off of his face. He had not foreseen this aggressive behaviour from his friend, not in the man's vulnerable position and exhausted state of mind. Holmes' eyes were boring their way into his own, making him immensely uncomfortable. He was at a loss of words.

Holmes pulled on his restraints again and scrunched his face up in pain when the ropes tightened around his wrists. Gladstone barked and jumped at the bed - excited by the sound of the detective's voice. Watson felt cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck as he hovered his hands over Holmes' flustered face.

He had to calm the man down somehow.

“My dear friend-”

He moved his hands up to pet Holmes' hair but jerked them back when Holmes wrenched his head away to spit at him again.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!”

The man's voice was high pitched and near hysterical. Panicked sobs had begun working their way up through his throat despite his newly found rage. The dog whined on the floor, startled by Holmes' angry demeanour. Watson raised his hands and spoke to his friend in a calm, controlled voice - the one he turned to when Holmes needed reassurance.

“No need for childish behaviour like that Holmes, I just need to clean your wrists, they may be infected. Good God man, look at your thumb!”

He tried appealing to the man's logical senses, but Holmes was beyond all reason, hissing and kicking wildly at him with his free leg.

“Get away from me - Damn you -  _DAMN YOU!!”_

He looked like a wild animal, bloodshot eyes darting from side to side, body pulled tight like a spring ready to coil. He pressed himself, as much as he could, closely up against the headboard - swearing and spitting at Watson when he moved to the head end of the bed. Gladstone yelped and tried, once again, to reach Holmes, and Watson grabbed the dog by the collar and forced it down, yelling at it a bit louder than intended.

“NO! DOWN BOY, _GET OUT!”_

The dog whined at the harshness of his voice and scuttled out of the room - tail hanging low between it’s stumpy legs. Watson sighed and focused his attention on the thrashing man on the bed. The dog's feelings wasn't his main concern now.

“Holmes you're hysterical, I need to attend to your wrists. Calm down!”

He pushed the man down by his shoulders, effectively trapping him beneath his own weight. The detective screamed at him and pulled harder on his restraints as he twisted and bucked his lower body in a desperate attempt at throwing Watson off.

“You-you devil! Invert! Disgusting sodomite! LEAVE ME!”

Obscenities and accusations were spit in Watson's face as Holmes kicked and struggled beneath him, constantly demanding to be let free. Watson held his ground and felt his cock stir in response to the uncoordinated movements from under him.

Holmes' struggling was exhilarating, but he had to admit the force of it disturbed him a bit. The words were hurtful and full of contempt, and he flinched at the harshness of them. They had never spoken to each other in such foul language, not even in tightly pressed situations.

Holmes snarled and bit at his hand when Watson, intent on muffling his hysteric screaming, moved it to his face. He drew back with a yell and slapped the detective in reflex. Holmes' head cracked against the headboard, but he didn't cease his struggling, still kicking his free leg wildly in Watson's direction and pulling at the restraint while hurling insult after insult out into the room.

"Deviant! Get off of me! _Let me go!"_

Watson grit his teeth in frustration and scurried his eyes around in the room for something to calm the man down with. Someone would surely hear sooner or later. The chloroform was in the kitchen and he couldn't afford to leave Holmes alone as he was now - hysterical and out of control. Watson grabbed the closest thing to him on the bed, a discarded pillow, and hovered it over the detective's flustered face.

 _I_ have _to calm him down._

Holmes' eyes widened even further and his screaming doubled in volume - panic evident in his voice and frantic thrashing.

“YOU'VE GONE MAD! _HELP! SOMEBODY HELP M-HMMNPpphhh-”_

Watson swiftly shut the man up by shoving the pillow down, smothering Holmes' face with it and tuning his screams for help out.

The detective's body convulsed beneath him, and Watson could still faintly hear the pleads for him to stop when he fisted his hands in the pillow and held it in place.

Holmes sucked in great gulps of air when the pressure was lifted for a moment, shaking like a leaf and reddened in the face. He inhaled sharply and glared up at the doctor, fear, but also contempt still present in his wild eyes.

Watson quickly pressed the pillow back down when Holmes opened his mouth to shout again, harder than before. Blood ran down from under the rope as he strained his arms and flailed his hands, screams almost not audible from behind the thick fabric and feathers.

Watson secured the man's legs with the weight of his knees and felt his erection grow. He licked his lips and moved one hand down to Holmes' limp member, grabbing it harshly while he pushed down on the pillow. Holmes howled and shook his head wildly when he was reprieved of air once again, pushing his leg uselessly against the mattress and gagging on the fabric and his own spit.

Watson kept it up for a few minutes, removing the pillow for a short period of time, only to push it back down, not letting Holmes focus on anything but the forceful hand stroking his member.

His hand loosened it's grip when the screams had died down to soft sobbing - a hoarse “please” uttered every now and then.

“Will you be still?”

He tugged on the man's cock and enjoyed the wretched, muffled yelp he got in return. Holmes had ceased struggling and his arms hung limply in their restraints. His breathing was laboured, but fast. Watson slapped his left cheek and slid a finger into the  pale cleft, wriggling it upwards to lightly push at the detective's entrance in warning.

“Answer me.”

Holmes sniffed out a quiet, stuttering yes from behind the pillow, not moving a muscle when Watson moved his hands down to fondle his privates once again.

“Good. I'll make you relax, then we can look at the damage you've done to yourself.”

Holmes had to be punished for his disobedience, had to learn not to defy him like that. Now was the time for a lesson. Watson moved down to kiss the man's thighs, rubbed at the sore skin and let go of the pillow with his hand. Holmes didn't stir or kick when Watson spread him and stuck his tongue out to lick at his reddened entrance. The detective whined and jerked a bit when he lowered himself down to lightly suck and nip at his scrotum, but he didn't utter a word, nor did he attempt kick again.

Watson palmed his own half-hard cock through his trousers before he took Holmes limp member in his hand and placed a light kiss to the tip. He moved his tongue down the shaft, caressing and nuzzling the hot flesh with it while he spread the trembling legs before him further. Holmes grunted and clenched his cheeks, but stayed put, toes curling slightly as Watson licked the underside of his sack again.

The man gagged on something in his throat and moaned into the pillow when Watson pulled his cock backwards, took it in his mouth and started sucking. He smiled to himself when he felt the member in his mouth fill and harden.

Holmes' body was responding favourably to his advances, having waited for this for so long - the feel of a lover's mouth on its wanton flesh.

Watson palmed his own growing erection and moved back to suck forcefully on the head. Holmes wailed and pushed himself down, but he wasn't able to escape the pleasure so wilfully granted to him. Watson took the man all the way in and began tugging on his own member to the sound of Holmes' choked moaning and whimpering.

The detective was sobbing and huffing for breath after ten minutes of Watson's eager tongue, grinding backwards against his mouth and moaning pitifully into the mattress. Watson chuckled and moved his head back to let Holmes slide out with a wet sound, before he took him in his hand again.

The detective's cock was hard and eager for release, red and slick with a mix of spit and precome. He panted and jerked his hips slightly, pressing himself into Watson's hand and making the most exhilarating sounds of distress.

Watson tutted and pinched the flesh. 

“Patience dear chap, patience. You were acting awfully up back there. I should be punishing you, you know.”

Holmes whined and thrust forwards again, but Watson tightened his grip before he abruptly lashed out and slapped the hard member with the flat of his palm. Holmes jumped in shock, let out a loud sob and pressed himself down again. Watson sat back and admired the way the cock swung with the force of the blow, before he moved his hands up to fondle the man's trembling cheeks. He clicked his tongue and looked at Holmes' back, brows furrowing as if he was in deep thought.

“Actually, I'm not sure if you deserve this just yet.”

Watson removed his hands from Holmes completely and grabbed a loose string of rope lying on the bed. The detective turned his head to look at him and the pillow slid down to land beside him on the mattress. Watson looked up and admired him, taking in the sight of his aroused body and sweaty face.

Holmes was panting, tears of shame and exhaustion working their way down his trembling cheeks, making his eyes seem impossibly shiny in the day-light. He bit his lip and stifled a moan when Watson squeezed him again. The moan quickly transformed into a startled wail when the doctor set to tying the string of rope snugly around the base of Holmes' balls and cock, effectively cutting off the flow of blood to his privates

Holmes shrieked and bent his leg, but Watson was already out of kicking range when the detective bucked and aimed his foot in his direction. Watson studied Holmes' face as he struggled once more to free himself. The man was a sweaty mess. His breath came out in short gulps of air, nostrils flaring with every intake, hair damp and plastered to his forehead. He looked up at Watson, slowly, despair and humiliation alight in his wild eyes.

“Please Watson. This is madness. Please... _I can't_  I-”

He shook his head and grabbed the cravat from the bed.

“Nonsense Holmes, I’ll finish you when I've taken care of the damage you've caused to yourself.”

With that he shoved the gag in its rightful place and tied it tightly behind the detective's head - catching few sweaty strands of hair with it. Holmes whined and thrust his bound cock uselessly against the mattress for friction while Watson stood up. He rummaged through his Gladstone bag and returned to the bed with bandages and cleansing cream.

Holmes screamed at him through the gag and pulled on the restraints again. The detective's balls had gone slightly purple, matching his mangled thumb in colour, cold from the loss of blood. He kept rubbing frantically against the mattress, but it didn't matter, the cock stayed hard and throbbing beneath him - relying on Watson for release.

He grabbed the scissors on the night table and moved it up to Holmes' left hand - the one with the injured thumb. Holmes stilled and looked up at him with wide eyes as he bent down to whisper in his ear.

“If you fight me Holmes, God help me-”

He moved his free hand down to squeeze the man's tied scrotum, resulting in a pained squeal from behind the gag.

“Just... be still and it'll be all right. I'll make it stop hurting if you behave, I promise.”

Holmes' hands flexed in their restraints, but he nodded quickly when Watson squeezed him again. He hummed in content and cut the rope to let Holmes' left hand fall limply to the mattress.

“Splendid. Now, let's take a look at the mess you've made shall we?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Watson smothering Holmes with a pillow  
> Forced handjob and blowjob  
> Genital bondage  
> Also a bit of homophobia aimed at Watson, but only because Holmes is scared/pretty goddamn mad.


	7. Day 2: The comfort of the sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson fixes Holmes' injuries and a fight ensues.
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

_Holmes' hands flexed in their restraints, but he nodded quickly when Watson squeezed him again, eyes closing in mutual pain and humiliation. Watson hummed in content and cut the rope, letting Holmes' left hand fall limply from the headboard to the mattress._

_“Splendid. Now, let's take a look at the mess you've made shall we?”_

Watson shook his head as he examined the bleeding wrist. The rope had gnawed unceremoniously into the flesh and torn the skin off completely in several places. Blood - old and new - was smeared all over Holmes' arms and the bedding beneath him, filling Watson's nose with a familiar metallic scent. Holmes jerked his newly-freed hand back when he reached for it, but stilled quickly when Watson drew his palm back in a clear warning. The detective's eyes widened in fear at the prospect of another stinging slap and he let his hand fall limp in Watson's grip. Satisfied with this, Watson gently cradled the injured hand in his palm and examined the swollen thumb.

Holmes closed his eyes tightly and whined into the gag when Watson tried moving the digit, and he inwardly cursed the man once again for disobeying him. Surely _now_ Holmes would understand that struggling would only cause him further injuries and hurt. Watson sighed and laid the hand down before standing up.

“I'm afraid it's fractured. I need to set the bone and splint it. You stay still while I get some ice for the swelling.”

Holmes mumbled something garbled from behind the gag and thrust himself forwards into the mattress again, but didn't acknowledge his words. Watson shot a quick glance at the man's bound member, throbbing with the need for release and pressed tightly against the blood-speckled sheets. It had to be hurting by now. _Serves him right._ He huffed, averted his gaze and walked out the door to the kitchen.

“ _Disgusting sodomite! -Invert! -Leave me!”_

The spiteful words uttered from Holmes' twisted lips and the memory of his hateful stare kept circling in Watson's head as he fumbled with getting the ice for the man's thumb bundled up in a towel. Had Holmes really meant what he said? Did he think such lowly of his friend's advances? Of their relationship? Watson's hands shook at the thought of Holmes truly finding him despicable. True, it hadn't even been a day, but his behaviour was going in the wrong direction. What if he was still like this by the end of the week?

 _What am I going to do then?_  

The cold water from the melted ice dampened the towel and chilled Watson's skin, forcing him to focus on the present. He'd have to set some proper rules and have a civilized talk with the detective once he was done fixing him up.

Holmes was still helplessly humping the bed when he returned to the room, involuntary putting on a show for him. Watson stilled in the doorway for a few seconds, just to watch Holmes wriggle and moan. He fixed his gaze on the man's sweat-glistening back to observe how the muscles contracted with every desperate push for friction. The sight was beautiful. Never had he seen his friend at such a loss of control; completely uncaring about his surroundings and lost to his own carnal needs.

Holmes whined something at him through the gag when he got closer, but Watson ignored it and went straight to examining the dislocated thumb again. He pulled the digit lightly forwards and felt the fractured bone move underneath his fingers. The hand twitched in his hold as he tried to pinpoint the right place to push it into place. Holmes yelped when he grasped the thumb tightly between two fingers and began pushing down on the thenar with his other hand.

“This'll only hurt for a short time old boy, you've tried much worse.”

He sent Holmes an apologetic smile, before he grit his teeth and pushed down. The man beneath him howled and tried pulling back, but Watson didn't let go of the hand before he heard a loud “pop” and felt the bone snap back into place beneath his fingers. Holmes was panting hard through the gag, face significantly paled and scrunched up in pain.

He didn't utter a sound or move a muscle while Watson splinted the thumb, and set it straight. The detective's puffy eyes were fixed on the swollen digit as Watson made sure the bone was set correctly before bandaging it up. Holmes moaned and exhaled sharply through his nose when ice was applied to the fixed thumb, but stayed obediently still otherwise. Watson smiled and nodded his head in approval.

“Very good dear, very good. The worst is over now. You just keep you hand still and I'll take care of the rest.”

He pet the man's hair and kissed him on the cheek before getting a towel wet and ready to clean his mangled wrist. The blood welled up from the wounds anew when he began moving the soft fabric over the ruined skin, dampening the towel further and warming the tips of his fingers. Holmes winced and jerked a few times when the fabric touched an open wound or scratched at the crusted grime stuck to his skin, but Watson was rather satisfied with his obedience.

The man knew what was good for him in the end it would seem.

Watson took his time once finished with drying the blood up, slowly rubbing the cleansing cream into the wounds and rope burns, making sure not to miss a spot and risk infection. He bandaged the wrist with steady hands while speaking to Holmes in a soft, soothing voice. He told his friend of the people he'd met on the way to the pharmacy, how wonderful the weather had been and how he wished he wouldn't have had to leave the detective all alone.

“Did you fear I might not return? Is that it Holmes? Is that why you did this?”

He patted the newly bandaged wrist. Holmes was still pushing himself into the mattress and jerking his lower body back and forth in frustration. He didn't seem to pay the words any mind, and Watson received nothing but muffled groaning in response to his question. He pursed his lips and shook his head. No matter, Holmes would answer him truthfully later. He had to focus.

He couldn't afford to leave both of the man's hands untied at the same time, so he moved down to the foot-end of the bed to deal with the bleeding ankle first. He'd have to retie Holmes in some other position that wouldn't put more strain on the injured wrists when he was done either way, but he preferred to save the uninjured hand for last.

Holmes didn't move his leg when he cut the rope, and Watson had an easy time cleaning and bandaging the sore skin. He ran his hands up and down Holmes' still legs once he was done before moving up to flick a finger at the man's swollen cock. He wasn't completely sure why he did it, he knew Holmes was hurting, but he couldn't stop himself. Something inside of him desperately wanted to make the man pay for yelling at him and rejecting his advances.

He was prepared for more muffled protestations and maybe a jerk or two, but not for the excruciating pain that surged through his lower body when Holmes' bare foot hit him with full force in the crotch.

He doubled over on the bed with a loud groan, close to vomiting from the force of the blow. Holmes hadn't held back in any way. Watson clutched himself and fought to keep his tears of pain at bay. _How dare he?!_   He had no more time to contemplate Holmes unacceptable behaviour, however, as the detective bent his leg again and kicked him squarely in the face.

Everything turned black.

The last thing he heard before passing out, apart from the thud of his own limp body hitting the floor, was the sound of Holmes' shuddering breath and the bed creaking.

He didn't know how much time had passed when the world reappeared before his eyes, but he could hear frantic cursing coming from the bed which reassured him that it had most likely only been a matter of seconds.

Watson winced and rubbed his aching face as he looked up to locate Holmes' struggling form on the bed. The man had his back to him and was furiously working on untying the ropes around his right wrist. The gag was hanging loosely around his neck, and Watson felt blind panic surge through his body. He had to sneak up on the detective, and quickly; Holmes would no doubt start hollering for help as soon as he stood up.

He stifled a groan of pain and slowly got to his knees, settling for crawling towards the side of the bed; intending on reaching Holmes while he was occupied with the restraints. Unfortunately, as Watson was preparing to make his move, Holmes threw the rope from his bleeding wrist to the floor with a triumphant yell. _  
_

He snarled and threw himself at the detective, rolling both of them off the bed and down on the floor.

“GET OFF OF ME! GET _OFF-”_

Holmes' voice was hysteric, and he clawed wildly at Watson's arms and face once he positioned himself on top of the man. Watson quickly got hold of the detective's left hand and squeezed it, putting pressure on the newly-splinted thumb. Holmes howled in retaliation and dealt a fast, close-fisted blow to the doctor's bad leg with his free hand. Watson instantly loosened his grip and inhaled sharply through his nose as the muscles in his lower thigh spasmed and cramped up.

_What a cheap blow._

Holmes wrenched his fist back for another punch, aiming it at his heaving face. Watson acted swiftly and shot his left hand down to grasp the detective's, still bound, scrotum. _Two can play this game old boy._ He twisted the flesh unceremoniously, no doubt causing the man beneath him unimaginable pain. Holmes' fist stopped mid-punch, and his face contorted in agony as he let out a loud, keening wail. He kicked his legs upwards instinctively and managed to hit Watson in the stomach in the process.

He fell backwards, retching as all air was forced from his lungs, and smashed into a cluttered table. Dozens of books and notes fell to the floor while he fumbled with his hands for something to knock the detective out with. His shaking fingers closed around the back of a dusty botany book - Holmes liked to read up on various plants and their effects on the human body in his free time. Watson weighed it for a short moment in his hand.  It would do.

The detective had managed to push himself up from the floor while Watson was down, and was now seemingly only focused on escaping the room, rather than fighting his captor. He made a desperate dash for the door as soon as he was up, but his legs were unsteady - having been tied down for too many hours, and he tripped over himself and buckled to the floor with a frustrated yell.

Watson hurriedly got to his feet and was on the man in a split second. He fisted a hand in Holmes' dark hair and slammed the book against his right temple, instantly putting a stop to the fight and escape attempt. Holmes went limp and collapsed beneath him, eyes fluttering for a short second before rolling shut.

Watson was left standing over the man, panting with exhaustion, face dripping with sweat. He dropped the book beside Holmes', now peaceful, form and wiped at his mouth with the back of a shaking hand. He had to move quickly. Holmes wouldn't be out for long, and Watson had to have something at hand to subdue him with once he woke up.

_The chloroform!_

He hurriedly limped to the kitchen, head swimming with pain from the vicious kick Holmes had dealt him. The detective was still out when Watson returned to the bedroom, anesthetic and rag in hand. He put the items on the nigh table before he bent down to grasp the man by his armpits. Holmes groaned when he was pulled on top of the bed and moved on his back. His bound cock was still hard despite the scuffle, bobbing slightly in the air as the detective's body began to stir.

Holmes' eyelids fluttered and Watson quickly got the anesthetic ready. He dampened the rag with the colourless liquid and hovered it over Holmes' awakening face. Brown, drowsy eyes stared up at him and widened in realization and fear when they fixed on the flask on the table and the damp fabric in his hand.

“No- NO _PLEAS_ \- “

He instantly pushed the rag down over the man's lower face when he opened his mouth to shout. Holmes clawed and pulled desperately at his arms and the hand holding the rag in place, but he was unable to break free or clear his airways. His eyes rolled backwards as he was forced to breathe in the toxic vapours; body quickly going limp beneath Watson's.

He counted the seconds from the moment Holmes stopped fighting him, and removed the rag once he was completely sure the man was out for good. He sat back on the bed with an exhausted sigh and clutched his aching head, unable to stop his hands from trembling.

“ _If you fight me Holmes, God help me-”_

His own spoken warning rang through his head and he glanced down at the unconscious detective.  Watson pushed down his want to instantly take his revenge on the man -  _Injuries first, he'll regret his own stupidity later. Focus on the wrist._ The lesson would go unnoticed if Holmes wasn't conscious to feel it either way. He pressed a fresh towel to the newly-freed, bleeding wrist and set to mopping up the blood and grime. He studied Holmes' sleeping face once he was done cleaning and bandaging the skin. The man's lips were slightly parted and Watson took notice of the angry, red corners of his mouth. He dabbed at Holmes' face with the towel, cleaning it off of snot and tears.

A darkening bruise was starting to form where the botany book had struck, and he trailed the sore spot with his fingers before he cupped the detective’s jaw and kissed him on the lips. They were soft, _almost like a woman's,_ he mused. Holmes laid still and compliant beneath him and Watson couldn't stop himself from plunging his tongue into the unresponsive mouth. He could taste the faint traces of chloroform on the detective's breath, mixed with tobacco and black tea.

He stayed there for a while, exploring Holmes' slack mouth and trying to pinpoint every single smell and taste he got from the man. 

He wished Holmes would let him do this while awake.

How would it feel to have the man respond to the kiss willingly? To have him push back into Watson's mouth on his own.

Had Holmes ever even gone further than quick peck on the lips with anyone before last night?

Watson wasn't sure of it.

Perhaps with Miss Adler? The woman certainly fancied the detective, and was - without a doubt - the only one Holmes had ever showed any serious interest in. How would Holmes have reacted if it had been _her_ proclaiming her undying love for him the other night in place of Watson? He recalled Holmes' disgusted face, how his eyes had bored accusingly into Watson's own, the violent way in which he'd thrown himself away from his hands when they'd tried to calm him.

“ _Disgusting sodomite!”_

Watson removed himself from the unconscious man and shook his head to clear his mind of the troubled thoughts. No. Holmes _loved_ him, despite the man's previous outbursts of violence and denial. He _had_ to. The doctor knew. 

Why else would he send Watson such longing, well-hidden, lovingly gazes when they talked over the tea?

What other reason could he have for being so bitter and resentful towards Mary?

He was clearly jealous of Watson's engagement to the woman.

How many times had he not leaned up, closer than needed, against him, feigning to read the newspaper over his shoulder? Grasped Watson's arm tightly as he pointed out something out of place at a scene of crime?

A warm hand smelling of chemical matter and mattered with ink spots, moving down from the doctor's shoulder to settle on his knee when they sat by the fireplace in their chairs.

 _"_ _What would you have me play tonight dear?"_  

Holmes would keep his eyes fastened on Watson's as he played the desired piece on his violin, lips pulled into a small, alluring smile.

The feel of Holmes lips against his ear, whispering and spilling out his deepest fears to him on his darkest days. 

Had he not been goading Watson's hand with his flirtatious talk and lingering touches? _Yes._ Watson knew. All of those things had been done with a higher purpose in mind.

But then,  _why deny it?_ Watson felt a tight knot form in his throat.

_Why...?_

He swallowed and looked down at the man on the bed. He would have to get some proper answers once the detective woke from his drug-induced sleep. But before that, he would need to retie him properly.

Watson shot a quick glance to the rope on the night table, but decided against using it to bind Holmes' hands again; he didn't want to deal with more burns and mangled skin. He needed to restrain Holmes without putting too much strain on the wrists, preferably in a matter that made it possible for him to move the detective around on the bed more freely.

He strode to the foot-end of the bed and grabbed Holmes' discarded belt. The leather was strong and thick, and much less likely to pierce the man's skin as badly as the woolen rope had. He crawled up on the bed and turned Holmes on his belly, grasped both of his arms and moved them up behind his back, wrenching the man's shoulders backwards in the process as he secured them tightly to each other by the elbows.    

Once done buckling the belt, Watson moved to Holmes' dressing closet, getting out two more to further restrain the sleeping man with. He returned to the bed with the wide strips of leather and set to fastening Holmes' legs to each other by the knees. He encircled the man's chest and biceps with the third and widest belt, smiling in satisfaction when the buckle snapped shut from under his fingers.

Watson knew he couldn't afford the leave the man's feet free - he wasn't keen on getting kicked in the face or crotch again, and moved up to the table to cut a long piece of rope from the roll. The ankle hadn't been that torn up and the cause of the damage had mostly been from Holmes pulling himself upwards by his wrists, which he would be unable to do with his arms forced behind him. His feet were rather cold, and Watson took his time massaging a bit of warmth into them before he tied the man's ankles together. He refrained from fastening them to the bed-legs, as it'd leave him unable to turn Holmes around when he desired it.

Watson moved up on the bed and produced a handkerchief from his left pocket. He used the soft fabric to bind the man's slack hands as loosely as a he could without risking Holmes getting free. Once done, he turned the man on his back and stepped back to admire his work. The detective was thoroughly trussed up; legs slightly bent at the knee where the belt dug in; arms secured tightly behind his back without putting too much pressure on the wrists and injured thumb. He was a wondrous sight, lying completely limp and vulnerable on the bed, silently inviting Watson to further explore his body. 

He eyed Holmes' privates and the rope that forced him to uphold his painful state of arousal. His cock was red and slightly chaffed on the underside, having been rubbed raw against the sheets in Holmes' desperate struggles for relief. His balls were swollen and pulled tight against his body, and Watson reached out with a hand to caress the smooth flesh, taking notice of how cold it was to his touch. He moved further up to grasp the hardened cock and rubbed at the head with his index finger, smiling in eager delight at the way Holmes' hips automatically jerked forwards.

A stifled, low moan sounded from the unconscious man and his nostrils flared as Watson played with him. He slapped the cock before him a few times to observe the small changes Holmes' face made with every blow. Holmes bit his lip and whimpered quietly and Watson moved his hands down to grasp his firm cheeks. He squeezed them, hard enough to bruise, and bent over Holmes' immobile form to plant a kiss to his stomach. Holmes sighed beneath him, and the flesh hardened under his tongue when Watson moved his way upwards to suck and nip on a soft nipple. He let out a low, pleased sound in unison when he felt his own member fill with blood, still slightly throbbing with pain from the blow it'd been dealt earlier.

_He owes you this._

He nodded to himself and quickly undid his belt and moved upwards on the bed, positioning himself next to the detective's slack-jawed face. Watson didn't dare sticking his privates near the man's teeth while he was awake just yet, but he still yearned to feel the sensation of Holmes' warm mouth wrapped around him. He turned the man's head to the side with a gentle hand and retrieved his half-hard cock from his hastily undone trousers. Holmes' breath was hot on his flesh and Watson stifled a quiet moan as he eased the tip in between the man's parted lips.

_I earned this._

He pushed further and tightened his grip on the detective's hair when Holmes involuntary stroked the head of the cock lightly with his tongue. He gasped when the man opened his mouth wider to breathe better around the intrusion. It was a pleasure, so very different from the one he'd experienced the night before. Holmes had been so tight around him - constantly clenching and convulsing on his cock - but his mouth was unresisting, warm and pliant around him. The man's brows were furrowed and he uttered a few muffled sighs now and then as Watson moved, but was otherwise silent as the grave.

_Thank you._

Holmes started gagging a bit when the head of the cock reached the back of his throat, and Watson held himself there for a while, just to watch him squirm. The detective took in great gulps of air around the flesh blocking his airways and his arms fluttered weakly in their restraints, but he didn't show any signs of waking up. Watson pulled back for a short while and rested the tip of his head against the man's lips. Holmes quickly fell silent and Watson moved again.

_Thank you Holmes._

His fingers grasped the back of Holmes' head as he pulled him closer, angling it to help him take the cock all the way in. Holmes spluttered and drooled around the shaft, but Watson didn't stop till he was fully seated in the man's warm mouth. He grabbed Holmes' head tightly by the hair and pulled it backwards slowly, watching his cock pull out, glistening wet with saliva and precome, before he pushed back in with a light groan. Holmes' body jerked a bit in its restraints and he whined softly around the flesh lodged in his throat but his eyes stayed closed and unaware. Watson groaned and twisted his hands in the unruly hair when the vibration's from the weak protestations moved their way across his throbbing member.

The room was filled with muffled slurping noises and the sound of his own panting breath as he started thrusting actively into the mouth beneath him. One look down at Holmes' seemingly peaceful face -  seeing those perfectly shaped lips enveloping his hard flesh, thick lashes fluttering against the detective's flush skin every time he pushed in -  was enough to drive him over the edge. Watson closed his eyes and threw his head back when he felt his orgasm hit. Hot seed spilled into Holmes' slack mouth, and he coughed and gagged as Watson rutted his faltering erection against his tongue while holding him tightly against his crotch.

_Thank you._

He pulled out and rubbed his softened cock against the man's sticky lips. Come was dripping from the side of his wide open mouth, and Watson scooped it up with a finger and fed it slowly back to him. He pushed down on Holmes' tongue with his fingers when it tried to push them away and massaged the sleeping man's throat gently with his free hand, making sure he swallowed every single drop he'd drawn from his body.

_Thank you for not denying me this._

He tucked himself back and bent down to place a soft kiss on Holmes' cheek.

_Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> A dislocated thumb being set and splinted (I guess that can be sort of squicky for some)  
> Brawling/crotch kicking  
> NonCon drugging (chloroform)  
> Somnophilia (blowjob)  
> Dark/Watson being deluded as usual
> 
> Exams are finally over so I spit this out during the week. Somnophilia has never really been my thing, but i found it hard to believe Dark/Watson wouldn't take the opportunity to stick his dick in Holmes' unresistant mouth while he was out.  
> I'm embarrassed to say that I couldn't stop myself from laughing while writing Dark/Watson's inner musings. No John, I honestly don't think Holmes was the one throwing cheap shots around, you going straight for his broken finger the moment the fight began and all. one might even go as far as to call you a dirty fighter;  
> Better than depraved rapist I guess. 
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments <3  
> I'm not quite sure how the story's gonna end up. As of now, it's getting darker and darker, but if people want a happy ending I might do it. I can see it ending in three ways; Holmes eventually giving into dark/Watson and turning into his unwilling sex-slave-something; Holmes killing Dark/Watson and escaping or Dark/Watson killing Holmes in a ragefit. Dunno. I'll have to pick one of them at some point.


	8. Day 2: The horrors of lucidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes has bad dream and Watson finishes what he started.
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

It's raining outside - the systematic sounds of drops of water hitting the streets below - constantly breaking the silence in the room. The quiet sound of footsteps reaches his ears and he looks up from his writing desk, in the middle of translating a cluster of strange symbols carved in the victim's brutalized body for the yard to find.

“Wretched weather!”

The door opens and Watson strides into the room, water dripping from his clothes and hair. Holmes smiles and gazes up at the man from his spot by the window. The doctor's face is red and flustered - moustache bristling. _He's been running – approximately four streets judging from the rate of his heartbeat._ Holmes averts his gaze from his friend's face and fixes it on the man's damp trousers. _Left knee muddy, hands scraped from hitting brick stone – he slipped on the way home, hurt his leg superficially. Embarrassed by his own foolishness and people having a laugh._

Satisfied with his conclusion to Watson's distress, he turns on the chair and sets to studying the symbols before him again.

The paper crinkles beneath his hands as he trails it with his finger.

“Running in the rain is a purposeless task.”

He thinks it's quite a witty remark himself, but he mostly says it to take Watson's focus off his troubles. The doctor grumbles something inaudible in retort, throws his soaked coat and hat on a chair and and moves to the window, next to Holmes' seated form. He looks up from his work and takes a note of Watson's mildly annoyed face. He can smell the light traces of rain and perfume on the man's dripping clothes.

_Mary._

Something unpleasant has happened between them during Watson's visit, causing the doctor to leave in a hurry.

Watson sighs and runs a hand through his dripping hair.

“She's mad with me.”

He shakes his head, as if to clear his mind, and sits down next to the detective, pipe ready in his hand. Holmes smiles lightly in spite of himself.  _Mary._ Watson spends too much time catering to her needs as far as Holmes is concerned, and he can't stop from sounding a bit delighted when he asks the doctor.

“You had a dispute?”

It's not truly a question, Holmes knows the answer and he'd rather talk about the case, but the expression on his friend's face tells him the man needs to unload what ever troubles his mind. No matter, he can still work and listen.

He's already translated thirteen individual symbols when Watson finally gets to the _thrilling_ climax of his story.

"- and by God Holmes, I tell you, I meant nothing of it, but she-”

He remembers this.

Soon nanny will bring the mid-day tea and Holmes will take Watson's mind off his marital problems by showing him the symbols and informing him of the case– no doubt so peculiar and strange in nature that Mary will soon be forgotten. He'll play a piece on his violin while Watson finishes his pipe, and afterwards Holmes will tell him of the inspector's most recent instance of inadequacy.

They'll go for a stroll with the dog once the rain has passed, sit by the fire and smoke. Holmes will spend the rest of the evening and night working on the case, and later he'll wake Watson in the middle of the night to show him the translations, not paying mind to the doctor's weak protests at being woken at such an hour.

 _Yes_. _This is familiar._

Watson has stopped talking, has been silent for some time. Holmes looks up from his work, expecting to find the doctor by his side, but is stumped to find the chair empty.

_How-?_

He scans the room with his eyes, but finds himself completely alone. The rain has stopped and when he looks to the window, all he can see is pitch black darkness through the glass, as if nothing exists beyond the walls of the room.

He stands up, puzzled and slightly disturbed.

_What is this? -Watson?_

How could the man disappear out of the room without sound or trace? And why-

Holmes' searching gaze fixes on something disturbing behind his desk. Something he is certain was _not_ there a moment ago when Watson was in the room with him. His heart starts hammering loudly in his chest when he realizes what it is.

A pale hand, almost hidden from his view behind the oak wood table.

He squints his eyes in the darkness and takes an uncertain step forwards.

“Who's there?”

His voice rings out in the room, and the silence that follows is deafening. He takes another step, this time more sternly.

He's not afraid.

_It's your own bedroom for God's sake._

When Holmes gets closer, he quickly realizes the hand doesn't belong to any of the living; the skin is rotting, white and slimy, as if having been submerged in water for a prolonged time. He steps back with a startled yelp when he finally gets a look at the owner of the hand, lying in a cramped bundle behind his work space. _-the girl from the Thames- how? Who-_ The naked, headless body of the young woman, in his bedroom - the thought of how it got there, who put it there and _why –_ makes the gears in his head turn. His own heartbeat is impossible loud to his ears and the room suddenly feels to small.

_This isn't right. This isn't how it happens. You won't find the girl before August, Watson fell in the rain months before. It's not right._

The hairs on his neck and arms stand up when he suddenly feels another presence in the room with him and the corpse. He turns, dreading what he'll see -

“Watson?”

The man, unmistakably John Watson - Holmes can tell from his posture alone - stands with his back to the detective, in the middle of the room, front towards the bed. He doesn't answer or move, hands hanging limply by his sides. Holmes slowly moves towards him, small voice in his head screaming at him to turn around, - _get out- wrong!-_ but he ignores it and advances till he's standing right behind his friend. 

_It's Watson._

Watson doesn't scare him. Never.

“Are you all right?”

No answer. The room has darkened; the lifeless corpse behind him seems to glow white in the blackness. Watson is silent as the grave and he doesn't react when Holmes utters his name again.

“What's wrong? Speak to me!”

He moves a hand out to shake his friend by the shoulders, but reels back with horror when the man's head dangles limply from side to side before falling to the floor with a dull, wet sound. Holmes gets a quick glimpse of the doctor's wide, dead, blue eyes, before the head rolls under the bed, out of his sight. Watson's body collapses in a heap before him, blood seeping from the severed neck.

The red-brown liquid moves towards him in a steady stream and he lets out a terrified yell and almost trips over himself to avoid it reaching his shoes. He back-pedals, not taking his eyes away from the hideous sight of his friend's beheaded body, and only stops when he feels his back hit the wall. There's blood on the floor under him – on the wall- glistening red and leading to the bed.

It's not possible - _it can't be!-_  he has to get out, he has to-

Holmes looks down, horrified to realize the blood's coming - not from the bed as he'd thought, but from himself, darkening the front of his pants and streaming down from fresh avulsions on his wrists. _No- no. Please- no. Watson. Watson help me!_

It's everywhere, on his hands, his face.  

He can feel himself hyperventilating. His own panicked breathing shuts all other sounds out. He slips when he tries to turn for the door and hits the floorboards, wheezing and pushing himself up against the wall with shaking hands. He's naked. _I wasn't, how-?_  There's blood between his legs, sticking to his thighs and seeping out on the floor - _oh God, no, please-_ The smell of copper fills his nose and he throws his head to the side and retches.

Watson's head is staring at him from under the bed when Holmes looks up – stares at him while he flails and cries for help, trying to push himself up and away, but he can't see the door anymore and his limbs feels like they're dead. He can't do anything but lie there, pressing himself up against the wall, bleeding and choking on his own vomit as the head stares. _  
_

He can hear his friend's voice coming from under the bed, even though the head's lips are silent and unmoving.

“ _Have I ever told you....-”_

Holmes squeezes his eyes shut and pushes his blood-speckled hands to his ears, but the voice keeps going in his head and he can't shut the image from under the bed out.

“ _\- how absolutely beautiful you look, when you struggle like that?”_

In his mind's eye, the head opens it's mouth and smiles at him, dead eyes shining with an impossibly blue light through the darkness, illuminating his collapsed form and shutting everything else in the room out.

“ _I tell you Holmes... - It's almost a sin!”_

The voice seems closer, as if it's owner is right in front of him, but he doesn't dare open his eyes. Something cold touches his trembling hand, pulling it down from his head and he bites his lip hard enough to bleed when he feels lips against his ear. Holmes shudders as the _thing -_ he doesn't want to look and see what or whom- plants a wet, sloppy kiss to his cheek. The breath on his skin smells of rot and death and he scrunches up his nose and tries turning away. Suddenly there's a hand at his crotch and his world explodes into white, hot, searing pain.

“ _I love you.”_

Holmes' wretched screaming sounds muffled, even to his own ears and he suddenly can't breathe.

_I'm going to die. I'm going to die here._

_I can't breathe- I can't breathe- Imgoingtodie-_

_Watson, help me -! ._

_Please -I_ _can't-_

* * *

 

 

He woke to the sound of himself gagging and heaving for breath.

 _Where-?_    _Watson!_  

Holmes shut his eyes open and fixed them on the ceiling above him. A thin layer of cold sweat covered his trembling body and his heart felt as if it was about to burst from his chest. _Just a bad dream. Nothing more. Just a nightma-_

Something was stuck in his mouth, forcing him to breathe through his nose. _Silk._  His own cravat – from when Watson had..-

Holmes' whole body went rigid as he abruptly realized where he was and what had passed the previous night - the horrors he'd been subjected to. Watson stripping him, tying him down, _hurting_ him.

“ _God I love you Holmes.”_

No – _not Watson_ \- it couldn't be- couldn't possible be the truth.

So he'd believed at first when the man had begun touching him, that this was somehow a trick, the result of some unknown drug he had been injected with, or perhaps someone controlling the doctor's actions from afar. He had to dismiss these theories, however, when Watson started violating him, pushing his fingers into Holmes' unwilling body, inflicting cruelty after cruelty on his person. Holmes knew - _knew-_ his friend would never hurt him in such a way, threatened to or not, and the pain had been much too real to have been caused my a mere hallucinogen.

Dark magic, demonic possessions, strange cults and satanic rituals; he'd even turned his mind to such ridiculous explanations for the doctor's actions as the man forced himself upon him. Holmes had no belief in such implausible things. He'd already exposed several self-proclaimed servants of the dark arts, and none of them had proven to posses any actual supernatural abilities, but for some reason he still considered them in his head.

Holmes simply didn't dare think the thought; that it truly was Watson - Watson who'd voluntarily hurt and humiliated him.

He coughed around the fabric in his mouth and felt bile rise to his throat when he tasted the faint traces of something, - _salty, thick, sticky;-_ unmistakably male issue, on his tongue. He wouldn't have been able to pinpoint the nature the fluid so quickly two days ago, but he'd come to know the smell and texture of it quite well during the past one and a half day.

What had the man done to him while he was out? How long had he slept?

His head hurt from breathing in the chloroform and he felt nauseated. The light coming from the window told him it was most likely around four or five. Holmes flexed his hands behind him and winced slightly when the splinted thumb brushed against his back as the movement sent a jolt of pain through his hand. _No ropes - a hankerchief – quite loose. He doesn't want to risk more injury to the wrists._

It would seem Watson had retied him and laid him on his back in the middle of the bed while he slept. The belts around his arms and knees were unyielding and he had no way of reaching the buckles with his hands tied. He squirmed a bit in an attempt at finding some weak point in Watson's restraining method, but had to stop when the movements sent surges of fiery pain through his bound privates.

Holmes whimpered into the gag and moved his head up from the pillow, as much as he could muster without the aid of his arms, and fixed his gaze on the hard member lying pressed against his stomach, aching for release. His balls were numb, – _thank God –_ but the burning sensation in his backside and member was enough to bring tears of pain to his eyes.

He forced himself to think of something else, anything but the fire running through his lower abdomen. Holmes looked around in the room and quickly concluded he was alone, with no means of escape or calling for help. He might have been able to roll from the bed to the floor, but the sounds of plates and cutlery being handled - someone humming and whistling coming from the kitchen next door, convinced him to stay put. Watson would hear the thump when he landed on the floor – would undoubtedly be in the room in no time – ready to hurt him, _touch_ him again.

 _No, don't think about it. Do_ _**not** _ _think about it._

Holmes set to checking himself over for injuries in his own head instead, choosing to focus on the present rather than the impending future.

_Left thumb dislocated - pushed into place, splintered with great care. Wrists inflamed, skin broken in several places – bandaged and cleaned, as with the ankle. Light swelling and pain in right temple – from the book. Bite marks and scratches, finger shaped bruises -mostly centred around the hips and lower body. Corners of the mouth split and chaffed. Throat damaged from overuse and lack of water, back-._

He didn't want to think about the damage done to his entrance; Watson had stitched the torn skin up and cleaned the area, but it still hurt more than anything he'd ever experienced.

He had truly never felt such pain as he'd done the night before - when Watson first entered him, and the memory of it was still fresh in his mind.

The doctor's firm hands, usually gentle and comforting, taking his hips in a vice grip and forcing him back on the man's cock when he'd tried pushing away. The sounds Watson had made as he'd moved, panting and moaning into Holmes' backside with every agonizing thrust. The excruciating pain of being impaled and feeling his skin break around the intrusion. The humiliation of being completely helpless to do anything but just lie there and take it, wishing for it to be over when it only kept going.

It was definitely the worst kind of torture he'd ever been subjected to.

Holmes swallowed and looked down at his throbbing red member again, wanting nothing more but to touch it and relieve himself from the pain. Surely this was not what people thought off when they talked of everlasting love and the many pleasures to be found by coupling? To be fair, he had always found such things a waste of time, but if _this_ was what he'd been missing out on - then by _God_ he wasn't sorry.

Did Watson do the same things to Mary when they were alone?

Holmes doubted it. He had no experience on the matter, but he was quite sure no normal human being would be able to enjoy what he'd been subjected to the other night.

No. This was not right.

Holmes chewed on the fabric in his mouth and pushed against it with his tongue in an attempt at soothing his cracked lips with the small bit of saliva he had left in him. Watson hadn't given him any water since the previous night and he hadn't eaten anything at all.

Holmes wasn't even sure if he'd be able to force anything down if it was offered to him - light-headed as he was from the chloroform. He loathed waking up after being dozed with the anaesthetic. It felt as if his head was being pierced with thousands of small needles, slowly moving their way in to his brain and making it hard to focus his thoughts on anything but the pain.

Holmes' ears perked when he heard familiar footsteps nearing the closed bedroom door, and he instantly closed his eyes and went limp on the mattress, feigning sleep.

The door creaked as Watson – _who else could it be?_  - entered the room. He held his breath as the footsteps neared the bed. The sound of plates and glasses being set down on the night table hit his ears and he willed himself to stay still. He could hear him - _Watson –_ breathing, and felt the bed lower to the side when a weight settled on it next to him.

_Please no. Not again._

Holmes bit his own tongue hard when he felt hands running gently through his hair, prompting him to wake.

Watson kept petting his head for a few minutes, waiting for a response, before his hand lowered to pinch Holmes' left nipple. Holmes almost jerked in reflex but he managed to stay still, lightly clenching his hands behind his back where they were hidden from the doctor's view. Watson was completely silent and he couldn't tell what mood the man was in. His stomach lurched when he thought of what Watson had said to him before untying his hand.

“ _If you fight me-”_

And he had. Had fought Watson desperately - done everything he he could to escape, but it hadn't been enough and now he'd surely be punished for it. The hand moved to his other nipple and pinched - harder than before, and he swallowed down a startled yelp. The hand was soon joined by another and Holmes' heart skipped a beat when he felt the warmth of the doctor's palm nearing his crotch.

He couldn't keep the game up anymore.

When Watson's fist closed around his abused flesh, he shot his eyes open and let out a low, stifled moan. The doctor's face was stern, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a tight line. He didn't acknowledge Holmes' awakened state, but cupped his cold sack with his other hand and tugged at the rope cutting off the blood to his privates. Holmes shrieked and bucked his hips, but Watson pushed down on his stomach and squeezed his hurting cock with a light sneer on his face.

“You don't deserve this-”

A sharp tug, followed by a soft finger brushing over the underside of his shaft, making him moan and whine uselessly against the gag while shudders worked their way up through his body. Watson's index finger stopped at the tip of his head and he saw spots in his field of vision when it rubbed harshly against the slit. It hurt, yet he pushed into the hand, unable to stop himself. It was too much.

“- but I won't be responsible for any permanent damage.”

If Holmes hadn't been so intent on staying on the doctor's good side, he'd snorted at the words. _That's far too late for that._

He squeaked and threw himself upwards into the hand when Watson started moving his fist quickly up and down on his aching flesh. Fingers kneaded his sack and Holmes exhaled sharply through his nose and involuntarily moved with the strokes. The rope dug into the sensitive skin, and he nearly wept in relief when the hand that wasn't fisting him started working on getting the knot up.

Watson held his cock at the base with a harsh grip once the rope was undone, pinching the sensitive skin there cruelly and denying him his release. He wailed and moaned into the gag when blood started flowing to his sore crotch.

Pins and needles assaulted his privates, and he shut his eyes tightly as he fought to keep his breathing under control.

The doctor was completely silent.

He held Holmes for a while, never taking the pressure off his cock as he stared down at him - seemingly uninterested. Holmes was frantically thrusting against the hand and bucking his hips in a desperate attempt at dislodging the grip and finding his release. Watson muttered something dark and pressed his face down to the side - halfway into the pillow below - and began stroking him harshly again.

The unyielding pressure at the base of his erection was suddenly gone and Holmes screamed into the gag as he instantly felt his orgasm shoot through him.

The intense sensation of both pain and pleasure - hitting him with such a force at the same time - nearly caused him to black out. Watson angled the cock upwards when Holmes began to spasm, and thick spurts of come hit his shaking chest and stomach while he thrust weakly into the hand. Watson held him as he rode his orgasm out, and Holmes shuddered and heaved into the bedding while salty tears of shame moved their way down his flushed cheeks.

He'd never been so humiliated in his life. Panting and sweating like a dumb animal - covered in his own juices - moaning and squirming on the bed like a strumpet off the streets.

Watson's hand, sticky with Holmes' own spend, rested against his wet cheek and pulled his head back. The gag was untied and tugged out and he breathed out a loud sob and let himself go slack in the doctor's grip as he was moved up against the headboard to sit, completely exhausted and spent from his violent release. Watson turned to the side once Holmes was sat upright and a glass of water was shoved in his panting face.

 “Drink.”

There was no need for the command. Holmes instantly opened his mouth and let the man tip the glass forward.

The water soothed and cleared his aching throat of the nauseating taste of semen and he swallowed as much as he could before the doctor had a change to pull back.

“Slowly, I won't take it away. Trust me Holmes, I have no intentions of having you pass out on me.”

Watson's face was unreadable but Holmes felt the water he'd just swallowed turn to ice in his stomach when the man spoke again.

“That would defeat the purpose of the talk I intend for you and I to have. I need to make some rules clear - explain the nature of this relationship to you, as it seems you haven't fully grasped it.”

Holmes knew the man intended to punish him, but he'd thought - _stupid, stupid, stupid-_ he'd hoped this had been it. But this had been. he realized, nothing more than preparation. He gazed to the night table and saw various pieces of fruit and stacks of toast on the flower-decorated plates. His stomach growled and he knew he wouldn't be able to refuse the food, no matter how humiliating it would be to have the doctor feed him.

Watson grasped a water pitcher he'd placed on the floor and the glass was refilled and pushed to Holmes' lips again. He drank without protest. His throat felt much better after he'd finished and the constant pain in his head had lowered to a small, dull ache.

Holmes looked up at the doctor with what he hoped was an expression of gratitude, but he had no idea of how well he pulled it off or how the man perceived it. Watson simply set the glass down – face devoid of any emotion- and grabbed a plate from the table.  His hand lingered over the assorted pieces of fruit before he picked up a slice of apple and pushed it to Holmes' parted lips.

He only hesitated for a short second.

He needed to eat if he wanted to uphold any illusion of being strong enough to overcome the man and eventually escape, and right now his first priority was to appease the doctor. Watson's blank expression and short sentences worried Holmes and made him dread the “talk” he'd been promised even more than he'd thought imaginable.

The fruit was pushed against his mouth more sternly and he opened it willingly and bit a piece off. The acid juices of the fruit's flesh hurt the sore corners of his mouth, but the taste was sweet and ripe and he quickly swallowed it down, opening his mouth obediently when Watson fed him the rest.

The doctor reached for an orange once Holmes had eaten a few pieces – taking his time peeling off it's shell and separating the pieces- before feeding them to Holmes. Grapes, strawberries, small pieces of pear and peach – he ate it all willingly from the man's hand. Watson sat back once he'd given Holmes a taste of every fruit he'd brought with him and set to spreading a thin layer of butter over one of the lukewarm pieces of toast.

Holmes' hunger had subsided notably, but he didn't protest when the bread was pushed to his mouth. Who knew when the doctor would feed him again? Holmes knew the man had no intentions of letting him die of starvation or thirst, but he was clearly not in his right mind and food could easily be used as a bribe. He coughed a bit when a dry piece of toast got caught in his throat and Watson pushed the water to his lips with an annoyed face before feeding him the rest.

He managed to eat another spread piece of bread – _blackcurrant_   _jam_ \- and a few grapes before he shook his head, indicating he was full. Watson looked down at him, as if expecting something and Holmes swallowed lightly.

“Thank you.” he whispered, voice small and unsure. 

The man beside him nodded, but didn't smile or show any indication of being pleased by the words at all. He placed the plate on the table and stood up – walking to the foot end of the bed with fast, determined steps. Holmes trailed the man's movements and body with his eyes. He could tell Watson was agitated from the way he limped - the light tremors that went through his left hand, both signs of stress and suppressed anger.

The man stood at the foot-end of the bed, back to Holmes, silent as the grave.

Holmes didn't dare speak or disrupt the doctor in his thoughts, and as the silence grew, so did his uncomfortableness. The scenario reminded him a tad too much of the disturbing dream – the disgusting thud the doctor's head had made when it hit the ground, the way it had looked at him, the deafening silence- and he suddenly, _desperately_ needed Watson say something. A cold-sweat had broken all over his body and it felt as if the temperature in room had dropped significantly.

Holmes held his breath when the man in front of him finally spoke, his voice low and thoughtful.

“I wonder-” 

The doctor paused, drew a hand through his hair and sighed before continuing.

“- I wonder how a man – a man of so many talents, who sees so much – can be in such denial, be so blind when it comes to the basics of human nature.... It's a shame really.”

The man turned around to look down at him, and Holmes almost wished he hadn't. His friend's face, so familiar and yet completely alien to him now, loomed over his cold form. The man's grey-blue eyes, eyes who he'd always looked to for reassurance and comfort,  now seemed to burn their way into his very soul. Watson's stare was intensifying, wide-eyed and slightly maddened, and Holmes involuntarily looked away,

The man's wild stare reminded him too much of that of several criminals he'd helped bring to justice in the past. It was the stare of a man who had no qualms about inflicting pain and suffering unto others – indulged in it even. The stare of a man who saw his own acts of heinous crimes against humanity as nothing more but mere trivialities.

The stare of a man who wanted to make him hurt. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> A bit of gore i guess, but it's dream gore only.  
> Forceful handjob/genital bondage  
> Handfeeding
> 
> Thank you for reading and all the suggestions regarding the ending, i'll definitely be looking to them when i get to that, i have a tendency of drawing my kink related writing out so who knows when that'll happen. Also, hah, starting out with a dream sequence, because what is a rapefic without forced symbolism thrown in amirite? One could say Watson really... lost his head. Badumtishh. 
> 
> I added chapter titles, mostly to make it easier to keep the time in check/how many days has passed.  
> The chapter got way too long so i cut it in half, the next one will be posted shortly this week i imagine <3


	9. Day 2: The fear of anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes fails at talking sense into Watson and the doctor throws a fit.
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late, I thought I'd have this chapter done way sooner. I'm pleasantly surprised by the amount of response and readers the story has gotten, considering the subject. I haven't ever written anything as graphic or creepy and I know I make weird slip-ups sometimes (Not native English-speaker) so I'm happy it's something people want to read.

_“- I wonder how a man – a man of so many talents, who sees so much – can be in such denial, be so blind when it comes to the basics of human nature.... It's a shame really.”_

_The man's wild stare reminded him too much of that of several criminals he'd helped bring to justice in the past. It was the stare of a man who had no qualms about inflicting pain and suffering unto others – indulged in it even. The stare of a man who saw his own acts of heinous crimes against humanity as nothing more but mere trivialities._

_The stare of a man who wanted to make him hurt._

Holmes focused his eyes on a small spot of crusted blood beside him on the sheets, anything to avert his gaze from Watson's demented stare. He could see the man advancing in his peripheral vision and dread filled his insides. Did Watson expect him to answer or make some sort of acclaim against the accusation?

Yes, he had never sought out this form of intimacy with anyone, ever; had always kept his relations proper and free of such _complicated_ matters. Romance, fornication, marriage - these things were for the common man, not Holmes.

Thoughts of incident nature, – Memories of Irene smiling at him from under a long-brimmed summer hat, the smell of her perfume, overwhelming his senses and leading his mind to faraway countries and creating pictures of exotic flowers and spices for his inner eye. Those pale, perfectly rounded breasts moving beneath the dark fabric of her dress when she moved forwards to caress his face - the thought of of kissing her full, red lips and not removing himself instantly- Holmes had always pushed these inner musings to the back of his mind when they appeared.

It was true, he'd never indulged in this part of human nature and had not deemed it important enough to do any admirable research on the subject. _Stupid stupid stupid!_  

He had no idea of what to say or tell the doctor.

Holmes didn't look up when Watson addressed him again, still staring stupidly at the filthy sheets and his own trembling legs.

“Tell me Holmes, why did you find it necessary to assault me and defile our friendship with those... _words_? Am I not dear to you?”

Watson threw his arms out into the air as he said it, nearing Holmes' bound form on the bed. He racked his brain for the right response to the doctor's question. Yes, Watson was very dear to him indeed. His best – if not _only –_ friend, but this man speaking- who had hurt and humiliated him - was definitely _not_ the John Watson he knew. 

The madman advanced till he was directly in front of him again and Holmes flickered his gaze nervously around the room. Watson didn't respond favourably to being ignored and quickly seized Holmes' jaw and pulled upwards.

“Look at me when I'm talking to you.”

The doctor's face was calm, but his eyes were full of rage and the pressure applied to Holmes' lower face was hard enough to bruise. He stared into the abyss of those cold, familiar eyes, desperately searching for some trace of his friend and flatmate. The man he knew would never voluntarily hurt him – who'd have done anything to keep him safe from something like this, _this nightmare._

He searched through his mind again for some feasible explanation for the doctor's behaviour. He simply couldn't accept it. It couldn't be the same Watson as the one he'd been conversing and drinking with the night before, before he woke up tied to the bed- helpless and at this depraved creature's mercy.

Had someone been in the room after he'd passed out, overcome his friend and donned a disguise? As Holmes looked into the man's eyes before him he had to quickly dismiss the thought. No. This was not an impostor; the man in front of him was no doubt Dr. John Watson in blood and flesh.

He had no clue as to what – or who- had decided to take residence in his friend's mind however.

He knew he would have to speak to Watson if he were to ever understand the cause of this delirium the doctor seemed to be suffering from - this seemingly unprovoked psychosis. He clearly wasn't himself.

 _H_ _e needs help_.

Holmes thought over the words in his head for a short moment, before he answered, trying to will his voice to sound as calm and sincere as possible.

“Indeed, you're incredibly dear to me, more than anything in this world, but-”

Watson nodded, face full of expectation. Holmes breathed in hard through his nose before speaking again, not sure of how the man would react.

“You're hurting me John.”

He hoped the use of his friend's first name would drive through the importance of his words, but Watson only shook his head, still not letting go of his jaw. He sounded offended when he spoke, as if Holmes had somehow wronged him for stating the obvious.

“I love you Holmes, you know I do, but this.... -.”

He gestured to the mess on the floor – the overturned table, pillows and sheets, notes and dusty books- and then brought a finger up to lightly brush the blossoming bruise at Holmes' temple.

“I simply cannot let this go. I have to punish you when you behave like this. It's all I can do to make you understand. You see that, right?”

Watson's increasing state of unreasonableness frightened Holmes beyond all belief, and the determination in the man's voice made his stomach lurch. Watson stared down at him, expecting some sort of answer, and Holmes nodded slowly - _Don't set him off. Don't give him a reason to start -_ making sure to look directly into his burning stare, hoping it'd somehow appease him.

“Yes.”

Holmes licked his lips, choosing his next words with great care. He didn't want to be on the receiving end of Watson's “love” again, but he didn't know what else to say. His member still hurt from the forceful stroking and he had no intentions of agitating the doctor even further.

“Yes, I've never doubted your devotion to me,-”

The words were true, he'd never had any reason not to. Watson had always been there in the last crucial moment to support him – had never strayed from his side when others advised him to – stayed with him even when he was in one his insufferable moods, shooting bullets at the wall and experimenting on the dog.

No, he'd never doubted his friend.

Watson's other hand moved up from the mattress, and Holmes had to fight with himself to not outright scream or pull away when he felt hot, trembling fingers trailing his thighs before they settled between his legs. The room had suddenly gone from cold to hot and he closed his eyes, desperately trying to calm himself. _Make him stop. Please; You have to make him stop._

Holmes swallowed the bile that had risen to his throat anew and willed himself to pick up the sentence as he frantically tried to ignore the lingering hand.

“-but you're not yourself. I know you believe yourself to be in the right, but.... This- this idea you have of me- me and you- it's-”

His voice heightened in pitch when Watson grasped his limp cock and started stroking it slowly, completely ignoring his attempt at reason. It'd only been a small hour since he'd been forcibly brought to release and it _hurt_.

“-It's not right. It's not right! - What about Mary? _Think of your wife!_ ” he half-yelled, hopeful the mention of the woman would stir something in Watson, make him reconsider his actions - _make him stop_.

The doctor flashed him an overbearing smile and gave his member a playful tug before he bent down to whisper in Holmes' ear, hot breath warming the flushed skin even further.

“She needn't know.”

Watson apparently deemed this a good enough answer and focused his attention on Holmes' privates again, moving a hand in between Holmes' tied legs to spread them as far as he could with the belt holding his knees together. Holmes blinked his eyes as he fought to come up with a reasonable explanation the doctor would approve off.

- _I'm not an invert – I have no time for a romantic relationship – It's illegal - What if we get caught? - What would Mrs. Hudson say? - You're ill - What about Lestrade and the case?-_

_The case!_

_Yes,_ Watson would understand the importance of his work - their work. _He has to._

The hand stroked his inner thigh and the words blurted out of him.

“And what of the case? You expect me to work like this?!”

He wriggled his bound arms as a means to drive his point through. 

Watson's face darkened and he withdrew his hand with a snarl.

“HANG THE CASE!”

Holmes jumped at the sudden loudness of the man's voice. Surely Watson couldn't be serious? Was the imprisonment and exposure of London's scum not their first priority? 

He took a deep breath, straining to keep his voice calm, still hopeful that the doctor would listen to his attempt at reason. 

“Lestrade will come looking for me, I have important details he needs to hear. It's crucial you let me go! I must-”

_Thwack_

Holmes was cut off mid-sentence by a stinging, backhanded slap and fell sideways on the bed with a shocked yelp, instantly regretting his words. He had no time to recover from the blow before Watson's palm found his cheek again.

“ _LESTRADE!_?”

The voice was furious and loud in Holmes' ears and he flinched when the name was screamed in his face.

He gasped and widened his eyes when a hand fisted in his hair and forced his neck to bend backwards at an uncomfortable angle. The doctor's expression was engulfed with rage, teeth bared and eyes transformed into small, blue slits in his breathless face.

“Here I am, spilling out my soul out to you, and you-”

He shook Holmes harshly by the hair and he scrunched his face up in pain as he was dragged up close to the man, spittle flying in his face while the doctor continued to yell.

“-you can't think of anything but your damned case!”

Holmes shut his eyes when Watson drew his free hand back and his head hit the headboard with a dull sound when the doctor struck him again.

_Thwack_

“Do you take me for a fool!?”

He shook his head weakly - as much as he could manage with Watson's hold on him - and swallowed down a pitiful sob before it managed to escape his trembling lips.

This was definitely _not_ the reaction he'd been hoping for.

_Say something -you have to say something, make him stop._

“I never-”

_Thwack_

Holmes' head whipped to the side with another vicious slap and the taste of copper filled his mouth from where his teeth had split the tender skin of his lip. He was hauled up by the hand in his hair once more and he couldn't stop himself from whimpering while tears of pain squeezed their way out through his tightly shut eyelids.

“Do _not_ play coy with me!”

_Thwack_

“Stop acting as if this isn't what you wanted! “

_Thwack_

“Did you not take your pleasure in indulging me? - Bespelling me with your voice and wanton body -”

_Thwack_

“- only to refuse my advances?! _“_

Holmes had no way of answering the man or defending himself as his face was repeatedly assaulted. His brain rattled in its skull and he couldn't even see straight when he opened his eyes anymore. Watson's enraged face was a blob of various colours hovering above him.

The doctor's shouting suddenly sounded far away in his ears.

“YOU MADE ME DO THIS!”

He was shaken violently again and the nerves in his neck screamed in pain as his head was wrenched back and forth by the motions. Suddenly the man was on top of him, pressing him down on the bed, one hand buried in Holmes' sweaty locks, the other splayed over his chest and holding him in place.

“Were all of those intimate times we shared simply a part of your plan to trick me!?”

The doctor's voice was accusing and full of hurt, and Holmes could do nothing but shake his head in denial at the words. The hand in his hair moved down to cup his stinging face, and he shied away when a hot tongue trailed his ear. The man above him inhaled heavily and his jaw was grasped and held fast, nails digging in to the skin. He could feel the doctor's growing erection, pressing itself against his stomach through the man's grey trousers, and the thought that Watson was enjoying this - getting off on his misery - made him want to retch and expel the food he'd just eaten.

The doctor's arousal carried on to his voice, slightly husky and breathless in Holmes' ears.  _  
_

“Oh yes, I bet you had a good laugh, strutting about, displaying yourself, knowing I'd spend my every waking hour thinking of you, of _us_. Have you any idea-”

Watson paused for a moment to catch his breath, and Holmes squinted his eyes open for a moment to look at the man. He realized – to his disturbance - that the doctor was crying, tears streaming down his infuriated face and collecting in his moustache.

“- any idea of how you've tormented me?! How you're hurting me in this very moment with your defiance! You have the audacity to call me a _disgusting sodomite -”_

The words were spit in his face and Holmes frantically tried pulling away to put some distance between him and the enraged man, but Watson's grip was firm and he was forced to hold still as the doctor's rambling reached a new level.

“-when you were the one who initiated this! I can see it in your face, you need this! Who is to teach you the ways of passion and love but me, your dearest friend?”

He was at a loss of words. He had no clue of what “intimate” situations the man referred to and he had no records of ever having acted indecent in his friend's company. Their friendship had always been something sacred to him, and the idea that Watson had somehow perceived it differently - had wanted to do this to him for over a prolonged time – was nearly enough to make him want to cry again.

His voice reflected his fear and he hated how small it sounded when it left his trembling lips.

“I've never – Watson you must believe me – I would never take you for a fool or trick you. If I - somehow - made you believe I wanted to partake in something like this, I am truly sorry... But you're not well.”

Holmes looked directly into the man's eyes, hoping he didn't look as frightened and pathetic as he felt.

"You must let me help you. I don't know what's caused you to act like this, but you're frightening me, you're _hurting_ me. My brother can help no doubt, he's-”

“NO!”

Holmes' pleading fell for deaf ears and he gasped as he was hauled up and forcibly thrown face-down on the bed, the doctor's hand pressing down on his back and keeping him put.

“I've had enough of your excuses. You will learn not to strike me again or speak to me in such foul language or I promise you Holmes, you _will_ regret it.”

Holmes already felt rather sorry for ever having yelled at the doctor. He had no idea of what the man intended to do to him, but the tone of Watson's voice promised him it wasn't anything pleasant. The gag was shoved in his mouth again and he let out a muffled whine when he felt the weight of Watson moving on top of him, placing himself on his thighs and pushing down against his immobile body. A hand slid under Holmes' chest and flattened against the skin before it moved up to his neck. He shook his head weakly and pleaded against the gag when the hand on his neck tightened it's grip – not enough to cut off his air but enough to hurt and constrict his breathing.

Watson's breath was hot on his skin and Holmes jerked slightly when the man darted his tongue out and licked the spot where his shoulders joined. The tongue trailed upwards, near to the left side of his neck and his nostrils flared in fear and anticipation when the doctor's teeth grazed his flesh.

“You will learn to whom you belong and you will stop defying me.”

Watson nibbled at the skin as he breathed out the words and Holmes felt the nerves in his abused neck tense at the touch. He was still disoriented from being struck in the head, and he couldn't do anything but gasp and whine into the fabric in his mouth when Watson suddenly bit down. The pain was sharp and instantaneous and he pushed his face into the bed and screamed when the teeth ebbed themselves deeper in his flesh. He could smell the blood trickling down from the broken skin as Watson pulled him closer - taste it in his mouth from where he'd bit down on his lip - he couldn't see, but he knew it was all over the bed.

It felt as if the man had taken a big chunk out of him, and he cried out and squirmed uselessly in his restraints when the doctor moved back a bit before leaning down to suck on the wound he'd just created, lapping up the blood with his tongue and placing several kisses against the torn skin. Holmes tried wrenching his head away but Watson fastened his grip on his neck and stayed on top of him, blood dripping from his mouth and mottling his moustache when he finally pulled back. The hand on Holmes' neck hovered over the bleeding mark and squeezed it slightly while another moved over the mattress to settle under his chest.

His nipple was grasped and twisted unmercifully, and Holmes couldn't do anything but groan into the bedding while the man on top of him spoke in a loud, determined voice.

“You'll answer when spoken to and you'll look me in the eye when possible. If I tell you I need you to be silent, you will be silent. You will treat me with the respect I deserve as your lover and partner.”

Holmes jerked when his backside was slapped. The hand that wasn't pressing down on his neck was now busy groping his arse and he let out a muffled screech when he felt fingers prod at his opening.

_Please, please not again._

“Blasted stitches-”

Watson growled and slapped Holmes again before he moved his hand forwards and pulled his left cheek forcibly to the side, giving the doctor a good view of the sore hole. He didn't didn't dare move a muscle when the tip of a finger was shoved in dry. It burned and he shut his eyes and wailed into the gag when it was pushed a bit further.

Was this to be his punishment? Was Watson so infuriated he'd ignore Holmes' injuries and take him again right here and now? The thought nearly sent him into a renewed frenzy of panic and he shook his head and pushed himself forwards weakly, nearly choking on his own spit and the gag as he begged for the doctor to stop.

His muffled pleading seemed to please the man and he let out a huge breath of relief when Watson suddenly pulled away, removing his hands from Holmes' body all together.

“I told you fighting me would not be tolerated. You defied my orders to stay still, you attacked me - soiled our friendship with spiteful words- and furthermore... You continue to remain in denial - refusing me and denying yourself the very things we both know you so obviously crave.”

Watson stood up and Holmes stayed put on the bed. The wound on his neck throbbed with every intake of breath and he was almost certain it would scar.

Watson's voice was lightly shaking when he spoke again, sounding as if he was just on the verge of crying - or perhaps shouting. Holmes ears were still ringing from the man's previous outburst, muting the words slightly and making it sound as if he was talking from behind a wall of cotton.

“You hurt me Holmes. You hurt me deeply.”

Holmes yelped as he was wrenched up by the belt around his arms and pulled sideways over the mattress, knees pushed to the floor and face down into the sheets by a heavy hand in his hair.

“Your behaviour today has been unacceptable, and I expect a proper apology once we're done here, but for now I need you to stay still. Do you understand me?”

His head was pulled to the side, prompting him to look at the doctor. The man's eyes were slightly red and puffy - tear tracks still visible on his cheeks, but his stare hadn't softened or changed. Holmes didn't know what to do other but nod his head. He knew he wouldn't be able to unbuckle the belts on his own, let alone fight the man in this state.

For now, obeying the doctor seemed to be his best – no, _only_ \- option of choice.

“Good”

The man bent down to place a light kiss on Holmes' cheek, before he pushed his face back into the mattress and stood up. Holmes could hear Watson moving around in the room, but he didn't dare turn his head to look at him, afraid the doctor would interpret it as a showcase of disobedience.

The footsteps neared Holmes' silent form and his breathing speed up in apprehension. He wasn't a stranger to violence or taking a beating, but the animalistic nature and perversity of the man's rage-fuelled actions had thoroughly disturbed and shocked him. Holmes had often seen his friend in a foul mood – was usually the one to blame for it, but Watson had never struck him without cause or made him fear for his own life. They'd had fights, traded blows here and there - shouted at each other till the nanny came running, fussing at the mess they'd caused, but the violence had been mutual from both ends, _harmless,_  nothing like this.

 _Mrs. Hudson..._  

Where was the woman now? He hadn't the faintest idea.

Holmes was confident that Watson had to have disposed of her somehow. She'd surely have heard the commotion during the day and night, light sleeper as she was. He wasn't overly fond of the woman; she was mostly a nuisance and distraction, constantly throwing his experiments out and snooping through his private things, feigning to clean –  _Ha! -_ but he sincerely hoped she hadn't been exposed to this side of the doctor.

Would Watson have had it in his heart to hurt her? He'd never dare suspect such a thing on a normal day, but man capable of beating and sodomizing what he considered to be his “dear friend” was, in Holmes' eyes, a man capable of anything.

He was pulled out of his thoughts of the landlady when the footsteps sounding in the room came to a halt. 

The doctor had gotten whatever he needed and was back to standing a few meters behind Holmes' unmoving form on the bed.

“Look at me Sherlock.”

The command was low and demanding and he quickly turned his head from the mattress to fix his gaze on the long, wooden object in Watson's hands.

He instantly recognized the bone decorated handle and brass top – simultaneously realizing with dread what his punishment would consist of. The doctor's face was stern - eyes focused on the object in his hands and mouth set in a thin, firm line. He was breathing heavily through his nose as he fastened his grip on the cane, walking forwards with determined steps till he was standing directly behind Holmes,

“As I said, you will learn not to defy me. When you behave like a child, you give me no other option but punishing you as such.”

Holmes flinched and drew in a shaky breath of air when the cold wood rested against his upturned backside, awaiting the sudden pain he was sure would strike him at any moment.

“I'm sorry Holmes, I really am, but you brought this on yourself. Once this is done we can move on.”

The cane was drawn back and Holmes balled his fists together in their restraints and pushed his face as far into the mattress as he could. He knew begging was futile at this point - knew he could do nothing else but try and prepare his body and mind for the oncoming assault. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Slapping/shouting/hair-pulling  
> Biting  
> This took a lot longer finishing up than I'd anticipated, I kept erasing and adding new things. Felt like a big douche while writing this chapter too, more so than with the others for some reason. I think it's the slapping. So mean...
> 
> While I think Holmes and Watson in the Ritchie movies are pretty gay for each other (my otp really), I've written this Holmes as being asexual with a small curious attraction for Adler. It makes it all the more tragic to me, that he might have thought of such things, but not ever with Watson :c 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	10. Day 2: The misery of punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson punishes Holmes for his "misdeed" and acts like a creep.
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

_The cane was drawn back and Holmes balled his fists together in their restraints and pushed his face as far into the mattress as he could. He knew begging was futile at this point - knew he could do nothing else but try and prepare his body and mind for the oncoming assault._

The room was absent of any sound, save for their combined breathing. Watson's low and panting, Holmes' own shallow and quick.

His splinted thumb shook uncontrollably in its bonds and he ground himself harder into the bedding, ignoring the pain in his privates when they pressed against the bedside uncomfortably. 

A light swooshing sound reached Holmes' ears and he tensed up in an attempt at bracing himself before his entire backside exploded with pain. The vibrations from the blow went straight through his body, as if he'd been struck by electricity, and he cried out despite himself. The outburst was partly muffled by the gag and bed but he still bit his lip to keep any more from spilling out into the room, not willing to give the man behind him the satisfaction of hearing it.

He bit down hard when the second blow hit and the cut reopened. Blood dampened the fabric in his mouth and he was forced to pull his head to the side to breathe properly, sucking in air harshly through his nose and chewing on the hole in his lip. The third blow landed just below the first two, right above his genitals. His body moved on its own accord, twisting uselessly around on the bed to get out of the cane's range. Watson growled above him and a hand pressed down heavily on his neck as the man lent forwards.

“I told you to keep still.”

He was pulled back for a short moment and the belt keeping his knees together was unbuckled and thrown to the floor before Watson pushed Holmes' face into the mattress again. His legs were nudged apart -ankles still bound tightly with the woollen rope- and he whimpered in fear and pushed himself up against the hand holding him down when he felt the cane stroking his behind again. He knew he shouldn't anger the man further, but he couldn't stop himself. The pain was worse than he'd anticipated, and Holmes realized with increasing panic, that he wouldn't be able to keep quiet throughout the punishment as he'd promised himself and the doctor.

Watson cursed and spit at him as he spread Holmes' legs further, pressing down on his neck and cutting off his air. He wheezed and jumped when the cane was brought heavily down again, striking him on his inner thighs - the soft behind of his calves - his already stinging arse. Holmes' entire lower body body rocked with the motions and he let out a choked howl when the wood struck a particularly tender spot - adding a big welt to the pattern of blossoming bruises already covering his sore behind. Watson was unrelenting in his punishment. Every movement or sound Holmes made was rewarded with a sharp whack and more pressure being applied to his hurting throat.

If the hand pressing down on his windpipe hadn't been as heavy as it was - if his mouth had been free of the cravat - he'd have begged. Begged for mercy he knew the doctor wasn't willing to grant him. Instead Holmes kicked his bound legs uselessly against the floor and bedside, grunting and heaving into the gag while the blows kept raining down on him.

He went limp once numbness started to set in.

Dark spots crept in on his vision and he closed his eyes and sagged in the doctor's grip. The sounds of the wood hitting his flesh over and over again created a sick rhythm in his ears, and Holmes tried to keep up with it in his head to keep himself from passing out. Watson would no doubt be angered if he didn't endure the entirety of his punishment while conscious.

Watson hit him a few times more before he finally pulled back - the last two blows being particularly vicious and making Holmes see white and open his mouth around the gag in a breathless scream.

The first proper breath of air he drew in felt like ice in his lungs, and he coughed around the gag while shifting his trembling lower body so he could pull himself to the side and rest his head on the mattress.

Watson stood behind him, panting heavily and mumbling under his breath -as if he'd just expelled some sort of demon from within- and dropped the cane to the floor. Holmes laid softly shaking and wheezing over the bed, muscles tensing every time he drew in a panting breath. His knees hurt from being scraped against the rug and his cock was sore and chaffed, pressed tightly against his stomach and the mattress, but his arse and thighs - he was sure he had to be completely black and blue from where the cane had struck.

A sudden warmth had begun to spread to the area and Holmes groaned and bit down on his lip again when the previous numbness was replaced with hot, fire laced pain. It felt as if a soldering iron had been placed under the skin and was now in the process of burning him up from the inside.

Watson had grown silent. The man was still breathing heavily - but not whispering to himself anymore– or to whoever he thought might have been listening. Holmes could hear pathetic sniffling sounds and whimpers coming from his own mouth, but he didn't have the will, nor strength, to force them down.

_Please let him be done - let it be over._

He moaned and tensed when Watson's hands settled on his burning backside, running his fingers over the welts he'd created while muttering words of approval.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. God-.. you have no idea of how beautiful you look right now.”

Holmes had a fairly good idea of how he looked, lying trembling over the bed and crying snot, covered in his own spend and sweat, bloody and beaten, _disgusting_. 

Watson groped him for what seemed to be ages, but finally moved his hands up, satisfied, and pulled Holmes up by his waist. He was gently rolled onto the mattress again, lying on his back and still lightly shaking from the abuse and sheer agony running through his thighs and buttocks.

He didn't make an attempt at protesting or moving away when Watson leant down and kissed his bruised temple. The man seemed content, as for now, and Holmes didn't want to risk sending him into another fit of rage. Hands stroked the sides of his face, running up into his hair and nuzzling at the back of his neck. It felt good... compared to the stinging pain in his backside, and he bit down on a sob threatening to escape from behind the gag. Watson's sudden change in mood and behaviour terrified him, and the doctor's soft voice and gentle touches did nothing to soothe his revulsion and fear.

“Shhh, it's all right. You did good. It's done. We're okay.”

Watson was smiling, still trailing his face with his fingers ever so tenderly and Holmes was unwillingly assaulted with memories of the doctor, touching him, caring for him, making him feel safe. – Watson running a hand through his hair, holding him in a tight embrace as he whispered words of comfort to his drug-addled mind on nights when he couldn't make sense of anything on his own.

“ _It's all right, I've got you, You're okay. Shhhh-”_

Holmes had been grateful then, if not a bit embarrassed the day after, but Watson's voice and touch had always calmed him, helped him focus his thoughts and mind. Now, the man's lingering hands and words instilled nothing but fear and loathing within him. He closed his eyes and pushed Watson's husky voice to the back of his mind, shutting out the lies that spewed from the man's lips.

No, they were definitely _not_ going to be okay, and while Holmes wished for it, he knew it wasn't over either. He remained limp as a corpse beneath the doctor as the man kissed and caressed his face - told him how good he was, how perfect he looked, how much Watson loved him, would always love him.

“I'll never leave you. You can take my words for it Holmes, no matter how much you –“

Watson paused, as if thinking of the right words to use while trailing Holmes' wet cheek with his thumb.

“-No matter how much you - _infuriate_ \- me sometimes.”

He let out a soft laugh and shook his head lightly.

“But I'm confident that won't be a problem anymore. This was unpleasant, for the both of us, but necessary nonetheless. Wouldn't you agree? “

Holmes swallowed and nodded his head silently, eyes still shut. He couldn't wrap his mind around the man's way of reasoning, but he didn't dare defy his statement. What inside the doctor's brain had snapped and suddenly deemed it a necessity to beat and humiliate him? To tie him to this sodden bed and violate his body and mind? It seemed like nothing but purposeless cruelty to Holmes - the actions of a grazed individual.

There was a grain of truth to the man's words, however, he had to admit with bitterness. Holmes was certain he wouldn't make the mistake of insulting the doctor's advances again.

Watson planted one last kiss to Holmes' forehead and stood up, moving his gaze over the darkening room with a regretful expression.

“We made quite a mess didn't we old boy?”

The doctor gestured to the fallen table and cluttered mess of books and notes lying scattered on the floor. Holmes wasn't sure if he was expected to answer. Was Watson angry with him again? He looked up at the man and was relieved when his gaze wasn't met with the cold, tense stare from before. The doctor looked relaxed,  _normal,_ like himself again.

“I'll take care of it. You relax.”

With that Watson walked across the room, flipped the table back on it's feet and began picking the fallen items up, leaving Holmes alone on the bed. _Thank God._

He was glad to be free of Watson's lingering hands and soft kisses, but now, with the absence of the man's touch on his skin and voice in his hear, Holmes had nothing else to focus on but the burning agony running through his thighs and lower back. He closed his eyes again, bit down on he gag to stifle a moan and squirmed a bit on the bed in order roll on to his stomach - lessening the pain in his backside with a small margin.

He could hear Watson moving around, setting things in their right place, stacking papers and folding sheets, all while muttering contentedly to himself.

Holmes lay in silence, grateful to be left alone, if only for a short time, occasionally throwing the doctor a glance from behind half-closed eyelids. If he pretended to be asleep, would Watson then leave him alone for the night? The doctor seemed happy - satisfied with Holmes' silence - and there'd been no promises of further violence after the beating he'd just endured.

But...- _What did he do the last time you slept?_

He didn't want to think of it; the taste of sweat and the doctor's spend on his tongue, in his throat, coating the sides of his mouth. He wouldn't be free of the man's unwanted affections in his sleep he realized – even in his dreams Watson's face and touch haunted him,

“ _It's almost a sin!”_

He shuddered at the memory.

Watson was whistling softly, and Holmes forced himself to focus on the sound instead of dwelling on the unpleasantries he'd been subjected to and the stinging pain in his backside. He could do nothing but lie there, listening to Watson moving about and cleaning up the room, waiting for him with dread to return his attention to Holmes' aching body again.

I'd been a good half hour before Watson sat down in his leaning chair with a sigh, the room absent of any tell-tale signs of the fight that had occurred. The doctor produced his pipe from his inner pocket and sat back, eyes on Holmes' unmoving form as he lit it.

He didn't say or do anything that commanded Holmes' attention, so he ignored him and set to staring out of the window behind the doctor's seated form.

The sky was darkening, the last strips of sunlight creating beautiful patterns of purple and light red on the passing clouds. He could hear light chatter and footsteps from the streets below, shopkeepers closing down, cats yowling and hissing in the alleys. He'd agreed upon meeting up with the inspector a few hours before sunset, discuss the case and present the description of the culprit he'd deducted out of the sparse evidence found at the scene of crime. Surely the man would have started looking for him when he'd failed to make an appearance.

Holmes hadn't lied when he'd tried convincing Watson to let him go at the prospect of Lestrade showing up, but the doctor hadn't seemed to care.

_Why..?_

He knew the yard relied on him - wasn't capable of finding the murderer without his assistance, so why was it taking them so long? Had Watson spoken to them beforehand? If so, this... perverted assault had been something he'd planned carefully, and with more people than the residents at Baker Street in mind.

If the doctor had indeed talked to the inspector, made him believe whatever lie he'd spun....-  _No! He **will** come. They need you. They'll come. _

He had to believe it. Holmes' chances of freeing himself and overcoming the doctor was getting smaller and smaller with each hour he spent tied down. He could feel his arms numbing in their restraints, the belt digging uncomfortably into the soft insides of his elbows and pinching the skin. His legs hadn't stopped trembling since the first blow from the cane had struck, and he wasn't sure if he could even stand upright without falling. If Lestrade managed to find and free him – _He will, he has to. He will.._ \- Holmes would make a promise to never belittle or badmouth the man again.

He groaned lightly and tensed on the mattress when he felt a new wave – very different from the one in his arse and thighs - of uncomfortableness shoot through his lower abdomen.

_Damn it all to hell._

Holmes pressed his legs together and ground his head into the mattress, but the dull throb in his privates refused to be ignored. How long had it been since he'd drank the water? An hour perhaps?

He averted his gaze from the window to throw a quick glance at the doctor. Watson was silently watching him, light smile plastered on his face. He knew, Holmes realized with aversion. Watson _knew,_ and he was enjoying it if his expression was anything to go by.

They locked eyes for a short second, and Holmes swallowed heavily when Watson abruptly discarded his pipe on the table and stood up.

“I reckon it's been some time since you last had the chance to relieve yourself,” he chirped, eyes glinting with something Holmes couldn't pinpoint.

Was he supposed to nod? The doctor already knew the answer and Holmes wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of hearing him beg for the toilet. He couldn't stop the embarrassing flush of colour that had spread to his cheeks however, and Watson's smile grew even wider at the sight.

“And you drank quite a bit of water. It must be uncomfortable by now.”

Holmes didn't answer. He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply as his stomach cramped up, feeling a light trickle of sweat moving down his forehead.

_Don't beg._

Watson's footsteps neared his writhing form on the bed and Holmes could practically hear the man's smug smile through his voice, sounding as if Holmes' predicament amused him a great deal.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about Holmes. I'll gladly assist you to the bathroom. Do you need to go?”

Holmes hissed and curled up when another jolt of pain shot through his crotch, but nodded, relieved that the man hadn't made a scene out of it. Perhaps the earlier punishment had driven the doctor's need to humiliate him away for the night?

If he stayed quiet and subdued - would Watson then untie him in order to let him do his business? 

_What a dull plan._

It seemed unlikely, but maybe - maybe if he-

“All I ask is that you do a little something for me first.”

Holmes' hopes of Watson helping him without demanding more from his exhausted body was immediately shattered by the words after they'd left the man's mouth. A hand placed itself on his right shoulder possessively, lightly massaging the sore muscles and taking his focus away from the pain in his abdomen for a short second while the doctor spoke.

“I've always wondered Holmes -”

The hand moved up to the top of Holmes' head to lightly pet his hair while Watson sighed and laughed to himself, as if he'd just brought forth a fond memory in his mind. Holmes kept his eyes closed, heart hammering wildly in his chest. He didn't want to know the content of the perverse thoughts that ran through Watson's head as he moved his hands through his sweaty locks. Was the doctor hard again? Did he expect Holmes to pleasure him? He didn't want to open his eyes and find out - didn't want to see the unhidden lust he knew would be shining back at him through those familiar, blue eyes.

Watson bent down, his mouth right above Holmes' ear as he whispered out his request, voice slightly trembling and full of barely contained glee.

“I want you to kiss me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Spanking/caning (might as well just call it torture)
> 
> I already have a big part of the next chapter written down, it was supposed to be at the end of this one, but It ended up too long so i cut it off for later, buh..
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting <3


	11. Day 2: The limits of the body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes is forced to make a choice.
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I thought I'd have it done by last week, but the day I was supposed to finish up the chapter real life caught up with me and I haven't really had time to be on the computer before now.

_Watson bent down, mouth right at Holmes' ear as he whispered his request, voice slightly trembling and full of barely contained glee._

_“I want you to kiss me.”_

Holmes' eyes flew open - a burning knot of fear and revulsion settling in his stomach at the doctor's words. His entire body felt numb for a short second, as if his senses had shut down, before the throbbing pain in crotch and backside returned. He could hear his own heartbeat, sounding too loud and fast in his ears and he exhaled sharply through his nose, desperately trying to keep himself from hyperventilating.

Had he heard right? Surely not. What could the man on top of him expect to gain from such a falsely obtained gesture of intimacy?

Holmes moved his eyes up to look at Watson's leering face, instantly realizing that, yes, he had indeed heard right.

Watson looked as pleased with himself as he'd sounded, staring down at Holmes with a teeth-flashing smile and expectation written all over his face. He had obviously been waiting for this - looked forward to it even. The doctor's gleeful expression fell a little when Holmes failed to nod or give any answer to his command though. The hand in Holmes' hair moved down to the small of his back and he gasped and closed his eyes tightly again when it pushed down, forcing his lower front further into the mattress and increasing the pain surging through his stiff body. 

“Again with the stubbornness?”

Watson sounded slightly humored, but Holmes could hear the annoyance creeping into his voice.

He squirmed on the bed, trying to relieve the pressure on his stomach and privates. The hand stayed put and Holmes groaned in frustration and cursed his own body's limitations and the doctor in his mind.  _Damn him!_ He needed to go badly, but he refused to – could not - bring himself to comply. The thought of having to willingly kiss the man who'd just beaten him - _sodomized_ him – was terrifying. 

The doctor sighed, then pushed down harder, and Holmes whined as more pressure was applied to his aching bladder.

“Just one kiss old boy. That's all it takes.”

Holmes groaned and bit down on the fabric in his mouth; He couldn't think straight anymore. The pain from his beating was almost forgotten - pushed back by the unrelenting throbbing in his crotch. Watson would no doubt be angered if he pissed the bed - defied him again, and Holmes had a lingering suspicion that the man was only looking for an excuse to punish him further for his earlier disobedience.

 _Just get it over with. Make it stop. It's just a kiss. He's done much worse. He's done much_ wo- 

Another harsh push to his back followed by a low grumble from the doctor.

“Do you want me to help you or not?”

He couldn't take it anymore.

_Just do it._

He'd be humiliated either way.

Holmes pushed his own pride and revulsion to the back of his mind and nodded. The pressure from his back was instantly removed and Watson stood back with a smug look on his face.

“Good man.”

He winced as the gag was wrenched out by eager hands before he was turned around and sat up to face the doctor. Watson moved forwards, eyes full of expectation and unhidden triumph, mouth slightly opened and right in Holmes' face. He only needed to move his upper body a few inches forwards and their lips would touch.

“Don't be scared Holmes. Just kiss me. Right here.”

The doctor pointed a finger lightly to his parted lips, as if Holmes somehow had no comprehension of what a kiss was. He frowned in spite of himself. He wanted nothing more than to smash his head forwards and into the doctor's awaiting one - crush his nose and wipe that condescending smirk off of the man's face; anything but submit to this perverse game of his, but the fear of what Watson would to him in return - the punishment he knew he'd receive for his defiance - forced Holmes to stay still.

He'd never voluntarily kissed a man on the mouth, only a few girls in his youth - and Irene. He recalled a faraway memory of Mycroft planting a quick kiss to his forehead after he'd fallen from tree branch and twisted his ankle when they were children. He'd cried up a storm and the gesture hadn't done much to soothe him, no matter how surprisingly gentle it had been; Mycroft had always referred to Holmes as having been an insufferable child, quick to tears and throwing fits at the smallest instances of feeling unjustified. 

_"Honestly Sherly,_ _I_ _sometimes wonder why I even put up with you. You're much too old for this. Come now, here's a handkerchief, you don't want father to see you like this do you? I'll take you home. No I won't tell mum. I promise. The nanny can look at it, they won't have to know. I promise – no, I won't say anything, stop being ridiculous. Don't touch it!”_

The thought of his elder brother – probably enjoying his afternoon tea as of now, maybe rereading today's paper – brought fresh tears to his eyes.

“Shhh it's all right, don't cry. It's okay, I'm here.”

Watson's voice was soft- gentle- and it made him want to cry even harder. A loud sob escaped Holmes' trembling lips and Watson shushed him again and trailed his wet cheek with a thumb as he cupped his face to pull him closer. The doctor's face was a blur through the tears and Holmes blinked furiously to pull himself together. He felt pathetic, like a child in need of his brother's reassurance again. 

The great Sherlock Holmes, crying over something as trivial as a kiss. If Mycroft were ever to see him like this – No. _He isn't here. Why isn't he here?_   Another painful wave surged through his crotch and he was forced to act, either that or deal with Watson's independent rage and lying in his own waste. His hands were balled into tight fists, fingernails cutting crescents into his palms. He hated himself for what he was about to do, it was depraved, _wrong,_ but the stinging pain in his lower body forced him to comply. 

_Just do it._

Watson's moustache tickled his upper lip when he moved forwards. Holmes swallowed once and closed the distance between them to plant a quick peck on the man's mouth. It felt strange, nothing like Irene's soft, puckered lips - only harsh stubble and the distinctive smell of man. woolen suits and Gladstone, pipe smoke and the faint traces of antiseptics,  _Watson._  He was positive he pulled a face. Watson held his head in place when Holmes made to pull back; fingers twisted painfully in his hair and he squeezed his eyes shut when he felt a tongue prod at his firmly closed lips.

“Open your mouth.”

Watson's voice was husky and slightly out of breath, but it also had an underlying warning tone to it and Holmes didn't dare do anything but obey. _Humor him, keep him happy, do as you're told._  He kept his eyes closed – the doctor didn't seem to mind – and parted his lips to let the tongue slide in past his teeth. Watson pushed himself forwards eagerly, nearly engulfing Holmes' lower face, as if wanting to consume him somehow. The doctor's breath tasted strongly of tobacco – _Arcadia_ – Watson's current favourite blend. Holmes gagged slightly at the alien feel of the tongue in his mouth, wriggling around and pushing against his own in an attempt at making it join in.

He couldn't make himself do it. He simply couldn't. The sounds alone made him sick, he'd surely vomit all over the bed if Watson kept it up.

_Worse than lying in your own piss?_

He wasn't really sure. What would anger the doctor the most? He had no doubts the man would be furious if presented with a mouthful of vomit, but he'd clearly made it a point that open defiance was not a choice in Holmes' position.

Fortunately, the choice was taken from him when Watson pulled back with a sigh, disappointment written all over his face. Holmes looked up at him anxiously. Was Watson angry with him now? Would he punish Holmes for disobeying him again? Maybe the doctor would refuse him the toilet after all, and he'd willingly humiliated himself for naught. 

“Please.”

The sound of his own voice made him sick. 

_Please let me go. Please stop. Just stop. Go to hell._

The overwhelming fear of the man's willingness to seriously injure him -  _force himself_ upon him again - didn't allow Holmes to utter any of those things.

“I.... ”

He had no idea of what to say to please the man. What did Watson want to hear from him? The doctor's face was too close. Disappointment had turned to impatience. He was expecting -no- _demanding_ some sort of apology or explanation for Holmes' incompetence. 

“I'm sorry.” 

It sounded weak, even to himself and he looked up at Watson with an expression he knew to be both pathetic and halfhearted. The pain in his lower abdomen was constant now and he bit down hard on his lip and tried curling in on himself when he felt his stomach cramp up. He'd be lying in own urine any minute now. _Please_.

Watson's harsh expression softened a bit and his mouth tucked upwards in a small smile. Holmes inwardly let out a huge breath of relief.  _Thank God._  The man was incredibly quick to accept Holmes' badly acted answers and acts of compliance. Was he really so out of it he couldn't even recognize an open lie to his face? - And from Holmes nonetheless. Watson had always been able to call him out, was incredibly quick to notice any wrongness or waver in his person. This...  _creature_ in front of him seemed completely oblivious, instantly latching on to his subordination.

The doctor sighed and shook his head lightly, filling Holmes' innards with ice once again as he spoke.  _  
_

“I suppose I'll have to teach you how to do it properly later.”

Holmes closed his eyes as a thumb trailed over from his cheek to caress his swollen lips. 

“Would you like that?”

Watson's voice was sweet and light, sounding as if he'd just offered Holmes a cup of tea or a reading of the daily news. Holmes was still for a second, before he bowed his head and nodded silently, not willing to jeopardize the reward he'd been promised for debasing himself and kissing the man.

Watson beamed at him and stood up.

“It's a deal then. Now, lets get you up and to the toilet, it'd be a shame if you soiled the sheets.”

Holmes gazed down at the bed as Watson set to untying the rope around his ankles. The bedding was already filthy - white linen spotted with crusted blood and dried come, but he bit his lip and refrained from making a comment, dead set on making it to the bathroom in one piece. He nearly fell when Watson pulled him to his feet and the man caught him with a soft laugh.

“Steady now old boy, lean on me. You haven't been up and about for a while.”

Holmes didn't have much of a choice. He stumbled after the doctor as he was half-dragged, half-carried to the door, trying to make his buckling legs work properly. Watson's arm was tight around his waist and Holmes let himself be led down the hall - the pain in his abdomen sending shivers through his body and making him double over several time.

He might have thought of running, but he was still too unsteady on his feet. Watson would have no trouble subduing him as he was now – in pain and shaking like a leaf. If he could persuade the man to untie him he might have a chance, but he knew he had do abide his time and wait for the right moment – make his move when the doctor least suspected it. He yelped and pulled back against Watson's hands when he nearly stumbled over something soft and furry near his legs, Gladstone. Holmes faintly recalled hearing the dog's barking earlier – drowned out by his own shouting and Watson's babbling. It gave out a short grunt when he grazed it with his foot and set to waddling after them, shaking it's pitiful stump for a tail back and forth happily.

Watson stopped once they reached the bathroom door and bent down to scratch the dog on the head. It made to follow them once the door was opened, but Watson shooed at it and told the disgruntled animal to wait for him as he pushed Holmes in and grasped the handle. He stumbled into the bathroom, nearly slipping on the tiles and crashing to the floor.

He turned around just in time to see Gladstone's drooling face, staring dumbly up at him with it's drowsy eyes, before the door was slammed shut by Watson's free hand, trapping Holmes in the small, dimply lit room with the doctor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Watson forcing Holmes to kiss him on the mouth
> 
> Yeah I hope you like it slow... I'm starting to realize it'll take me several chapters to reach day 3 with the amount of time that passes with each one. The actions performed in this lasted for no more than half an hour, or less :V  
> I'll go an answer my comments now, thanks for reading <3


	12. Day 2: The relief of humilation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson takes Holmes to the toilet, but it's kind of hard peeing with your rapist feeling you up. 
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

_He turned around just in time to see Gladstone's drooling face, staring dumbly up at him with it's drowsy eyes, before the door was slammed shut by Watson's free hand, trapping Holmes in the small, dimply lit room with the doctor._

Holmes looked on in a state of dull impassiveness as Watson locked the door from the inside and put the key down on a small, white bathroom table. Watson turned around, looking pleased as ever, and led Holmes' trembling form to the toilet with a firm grip on his arm.

He let out a stifled gasp and pushed backwards into the man's chest when Watson's other hand found his aching member and angled it towards the porcelain bowl before them.

“There, you can go now.”

The stubbled chin of the doctor rested on Holmes' shoulder, he could feel every hot exhale of breath against his skin. Holmes' knees had startled shaking impossibly harder than before. This was too much, perhaps even worse than pissing the bed. The muscles in his abdomen clamped up, and even if he'd wanted to – was desperate for it – he simply couldn't let himself go. Not with the man's hands on him, not while being held like some invalid or dimwitted child.

He tensed his shoulders and exhaled sharply before addressing Watson in a quavering voice, carrying none of the authority he needed at the moment.

“I'd prefer to do this myself, thank you.”

The hand on Holmes' arm tightened and he could feel the brush of hair against his neck as Watson shook his head in response to the request.

“Nonsense. I'm not untying you.”

He swallowed, despite the fact that his mouth had gone awfully dry in the span of the last two minutes, and doubled over with a startled yelp when Watson twisted the grip on his member and pushed him slightly forward.

“Will you be making a scene out of this too?”

He sounded amused, and it angered Holmes beyond all belief, that this man who had brought him so low was still looking for ways to further humiliate and debase him. Watson was clearly enjoying it, revelling in the fear he'd managed to instil in his' mind. He could feel the smile against his neck. 

The hand on Holmes' arm moved over across his chest, down to his lower stomach and placed itself there, applying a small amount of pressure and making him unable to focus on anything but the short stabs of pain running through his lower body. He stifled a moan and shook his head, frantically moving his eyes away from the sight of Watson's hands on him to the key on the table, then the door and back again.

He stumbled over his words, throat closing up in shame at the sound of his own helpless plead.

“No I – I can't. _I can't._ Please. I won't run, I promise, I won't.”

Holmes pawed weakly at Watson's shirt with his tied hands as he tried to get a hold and pull himself back and catch his footing.

“If you just untie my hands -let me-”

He let out another gasp when the man's grip on his cock tightened, voice turning hysteric when a pang of fire shot up through his stomach and bladder

“Watson _please!”_

The doctor didn't remove himself and Holmes felt tears of desperation prick in his eyes when Watson's voice changed from humoured to furious in one second.

“So you'd rather piss on the floor then?”

He followed up the question with a harsh tug, wrenching a pained whine out from Holmes' sore throat and nearly making him fall over. His knees were pressed uncomfortably up against the lavatory's cold side and Watson's hold on him had him slightly bending over, giving him a good view of the man's offending grip around his limp member.

He was completely and utterly trapped, with no choice but to play along, but his body refused to relax in the madman's presence. He shook his head again and forced his voice out through clenched teeth.

“Please.”

Watson was silent for a moment, contemplating his next choice of action, before he sighed and relaxed his grip on Holmes' privates, the other hand still pressing painfully against his stomach.

“All right, all right. I'll help you. Only this once.”

_Help me..?_

The meaning of the words were instantly made clear to Holmes when the hand holding his limp cock upright began to move, lightly massaging the aching flesh and trickling the underside of his shaft with a painfully gentle touch. Holmes jerked forwards, but the hand on his stomach pressed down and he was forced to stay still, clenching his teeth and biting the inner side of his cheek to stop himself from making any other sounds - he didn't want to rouse the man further.

The pressure on his abdomen was increased with a slight push, and the hand caressing his member turned more persistent. He could feel his muscles loosening up at the touch, soothed by the rush of warmth pooling to his crotch as a result of Watson's ministrations.

It only took a short moment of relaxation for his body to react.

He opened his mouth in a breathless gasp and ground the back of his head against Watson's collarbone when the pressure and gentle touches overruled his fear and distress. A helpless sob got caught in his throat and he closed his eyes, cheeks burning with shame when his body started letting go.

“There we go. You're so tense, no need for that at all Holmes. See?”

Watson rested his chin on Holmes' shaking shoulder and turned his head to the side to nip at the wound on his neck.

Holmes kept his eyes shut, an overwhelming feeling of shame, combined with utter _relief,_ surging through his aching body. Even though he could not see it, the streaming sound of the warm liquid hitting the surface in the porcelain bowl, combined with Watson's touch and encouraging words, made him wan to curl up on the floor and die with embarrassment and disgust. Out of all the things the man had forced upon him, this was by far the most humiliating.

If he'd had the freedom of his hands, he would've used them to cover up his tear stricken, reddened face.

Watson didn't comment on his tears or pathetic display of composure, but kept whispering words of affection into the bitten skin of Holmes' neck, rubbing himself up against his naked body and breathing heavily into his ear.

Watson shook his member lightly once Holmes was done, ran his hands over his thighs in soothing circles and sighed contently, before turning Holmes around with an iron grip on his arm. The lid was shoved down and he was pushed, not too gently, down to sit on it. Holmes visibly winced when his beaten thighs and sore backside touched the cold lid, but Watson didn't seem to notice or care.

The man seemed to be lost in his own world, simply staring down at Holmes with a slight frown on his face. The hands on Holmes' legs moved over the come dried to his skin - lying in small streaks below his stomach – sticky between his thighs and making his chest and abdomen itch when Watson's fingers peeled at it.

After being observed, touched and stared at for ten minutes without a word or change in expression from the doctor, the uncomfortableness of sitting down and the man's unsettling silence forced him to say something.

“Watson..”

It was said softly, but the man before him instantly reacted by freezing up, his hands suddenly stiff on Holmes' thigh.

Watson blinked and shifted his gaze to Holmes' face, startled, as if he hadn't expected him to talk, but quickly pulled himself together and leaned back.

“Yes, yes of course.”

He sounded rattled, disturbed by his own behavior, and Holmes wasn't sure if the man was addressing him or answering to something – _someone –_ only the doctor was able to see.

Watson smiled uneasily and brushed a hand through his hair once before settling it on Holmes' knee, patting it lightly as he spoke.

“That- “ He pointed to the throbbing bite mark marring the side upper side of Holmes' neck. “ - needs to be cleaned, and a recheck of the bandages wouldn't be an ill-advised idea either.”

The doctor's hand moved forwards to trail the bite mark as he looked down at Holmes with a thoughtful expression.

“I think what you need now is a nice, warm bath. Wouldn't you agree old boy?”

Holmes shifted on the seat. He knew he looked a mess, snot still dripping from his nose and mingling with the tears running down his burning cheeks. He hadn't stopped sweating since entering the room and the overwhelming smell of himself – of _Watson_ everywhere on his skin, was nauseating.

Yes, he did need a bath, _badly,_ but he still hesitated before answering. Would Watson take a yes as an invitation or agreement on Holmes' part of some sorts? A bath would mean more intimate touching, but it wasn't as if he had any illusions of the man leaving him alone if he refused.

Watson would most likely be angry with him again and he'd be back to being slapped and yelled at like a disobedient wife in an unruly household.

If he were to agree though...

There was only cold water in the pipes. Watson would need to retreat to the kitchen in order to heat it up, and an opportunity to escape might present itself in the man's absence. It would usually take about half an hour for the nanny to do the task, and she was quite sufficient in that regard.

He was reminded of his previous musings about the landlady and her whereabouts, and the words burst out of him.

“Is Hudson here?”

The question rang out into the room and Holmes held his breath as he waited for the doctor's response.

Watson frowned and removed his hand. His eyes darted to the key on the table before they settled on Holmes' face. He exhaled sharply once, shook his head and rearranged his sullen expression into one of amusement.

“No need to worry Holmes, she won't interrupt us. Besides -” The doctor's mouth tucked upwards in a smug smile. “- I've bathed you before, this is hardly indecent behaviour for any one of us.”

Holmes shot his eyes down and swallowed as he felt his throat constrict at the man's last words. 

On a regular evening it wouldn't be.

Watson, as his doctor and friend, would always patch him up and clean his wounds in the aftermath of a violent confrontation with the lowlier residents of London, or when Holmes returned from a particularly vicious boxing match.

The doctor would fuss at him, reprimand him for his carelessness, shake his head and make worried sounds in the back of his throat, but Holmes had always somewhat enjoyed the sessions - Watson talking to him casually about his working day as he stitched up his torn flesh, scoffing at Holmes when he complained or battered at his hands.

“ _You worry too much dear. There was only three of them. I'm quite all right, stop being such a fuss. See, it's nothing.”_

Watson would shove his hands away with partially feigned annoyance before continuing his work, steady hands moving over the skin with professional efficiency.

“ _It's sheer arrogance is what it is. Going over there without assistance at this hour.”_

He'd let out a stifled snort at that, averted his gaze from his arm too look at the doctor's face.

“ _Well if it's keeping you up at night I advice you to join me next time I deem it necessary. You seem to be implying that I came unprepared. I can assure you Watson I – ow!_

A sharp pull of the thread at the doctor cut it, eyes glinting with amusement at his outburst...  

Despite his complaining and bickering Holmes _liked_ being cared for by the man, had always enjoyed being the center of his attention and now...

Now those memories would be tainted too. 

Watson brought his left hand to Holmes' cheek and he shuddered when the fingers brushed over the bruise on his temple.

“Should I go heat the water?”

Holmes licked his dry lips and flexed his hands behind his back. Disobeying would do him no good. He had to endure. He kept his eyes on the floor as he answered, fighting to keep his voice calm.

“I think Watson...- A bath would do me good.” 

Watson hummed in response and moved a a small strand of sweaty hair behind Holmes' ear before standing back with a satisfied look on his face.

“Splendid. You stay here and I'll be right back.”

He left Holmes sitting uncomfortably on the toilet lid as he took the key from the table and moved to the door. The dog barked from the other side, having been standing there and waiting the whole time. Watson pushed it away with a nudge of the foot when he opened the door and made to exit the room.

“And Holmes -”

The man stood in the doorway, back towards the hall, hand on the handle.

“Be a dear and behave yourself this time.”

Holmes nodded, still staring down at his feet on the cold tile floor.

“Of course.”

It was almost a whisper, but the man heard it.

“Good.”

He winced when the door was shut. He sat stiff as a board where he'd been placed as he heard the lock click in place, a light rustle of keys and the retreating footsteps of the doctor and Gladstone moving down the hall.

Once he was positive the man had reached the kitchen, he stood up and moved to the door, stumbling over the bath rug in the process and nearly falling flat on his face. He grit his teeth with a low curse and pushed the side of his face up against the painted wood. There was the distant sound of barking once every fifth second or so, but it was otherwise quiet.

Holmes stood back and flexed his hands in their restraints. He was painfully aware of how little time he had alone. Watson would be back as soon as he'd set the water over to boil.

Shouting for help was not an option, the doctor would be the first to hear and come running. Kicking down the door, while tempting, would most likely cause him an injury he couldn't afford, and if he _did_ manage to escape the bathroom, he'd still be without the use of his hands to fend off Watson with.

No, the bonds around his wrists and arms had to be the first thing to go.

He removed himself from the door to stand in the middle of the small bathroom, weighing his options and moving his eyes back and forth rapidly.

 _Smash the mirror with the back of head, use piece for the handkerchief and – no.. Too much noise, need something better for the belts, something else, sharper. –_ He held his breath as his eyes stopped to focus on the small cupboard standing next to the sink.

_The shaving kit!_

Yes, the obvious choice really. His wrists where tied together, but he still had the use of his fingers, enough to hold a blade and free himself from the restraints.

Holmes hurried over the bath rug, ignoring the pain in his weakened legs as they wobbled and came to a halt. He knew his belongings to be in the top drawer.

He turned his back towards the wooden furniture and grasped the small, round handle with his uninjured hand. The drawer pulled out without a sound when he yanked on it and he immediately shot his hands down, only to have them hit bare wood.

 _No_.

Holmes fumbled with the tips of his fingers, breath turning ragged when he realized the storage had been emptied of it's assets.

 _Please no_.

He turned around to reaffirm what he already knew. Someone – _Watson_ – had disposed of it, hidden it from the room. _He knew this would happen. He knew you would do this._

The walls of the bathroom caved in on him and he felt faint - small spots suddenly appearing at the edge of his vision.

_Please._

His hands shook as they pulled out the second drawer, even though he knew it to futile. It was as bare as the first and he nearly sobbed out loud when his scrabbling fingers closed around nothing once again.

_Breathe, crying won't do you any good. There'll be something else. You can find some-_

The sound of barking and Watson's calm, muffled words immediately removed all rational thinking from Holmes' mind and he froze on the spot, breath coming out in small, quick puffs through his nose. 

“Shhh you stay here. I know, I'll be back.”

The voice made him jump backwards into the cupboard with a thump sound, simultaneously slamming the drawer shut. The sound of Watson's footsteps hit his ears like a loud, menacing rhythm as it echoed down the hall before stopping when the man came to a halt in front of the door.

_Please God don't let him have heard it._

If Watson found any evidence of Holmes trying to escape or disobeying his command to sit still... _Please._

He threw himself towards the toilet seat and placed himself on it, ignoring the sting in his backside, just in time to take in a few gulps of constricted air before he heard the rustle of keys and the creak of the handle being turned.

He bit his lip and focused hard on keeping the limb still, but his left leg wouldn't stop trembling. His heart was beating too fast, too hard for him to seem relaxed, not at all like a man who'd spent the last few minutes seated and calm.

He was having a damn near panic attack and Watson was staring at him from the doorway - staring at him with a curious expression and observant gaze, Gladstone bag in his hand. Holmes followed the trail of the doctor's eyes as they moved from his face to the cupboard. _Breathe._

Nothing looked amiss, he was sure of it.

Watson walked towards him and Holmes shot his eyes down quickly, fixing them on the mottled rug on the floor. A feeling akin to near hysteria hit him in the chest when something out of order caught his eye. The left corner had ridden up when he'd stumbled over it and he hadn't even bothered to correct the mistake, leaving it out in the open for any imbecile to see. _Idiot. You god damned idiot!_

Suddenly Watson's shoe was hovering over the spot, and Holmes looked up. The man had shifted his gaze from the rug to his face, but he didn't look angered as one might have expected him to. In fact he was smiling, eyes on Holmes' trembling form as he nudged at the flipped corner of the rug till it flattened out.

Holmes didn't know whether to say something, apologize or start _begging_ , so he settled for staring numbly at the fixed spot beneath the man's shoe. Watson's smile widened, eyes shining with something akin to triumph. He could see it out of his peripheral vision, and it disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.

He wasn't sure if he'd rather have the man shout at him than this tense staring and cruel joy at seeing the aftermath of his failed escape attempt.

Holmes nearly jumped when Watson sat the medical bag down on the table near the sink. The unsettling moment of silence was over and Watson's smile was replaced by a sterner expression, the strange glint in his eyes gone as soon as it'd appeared.

“Lets have a look at those wrists shall we?”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Watson holding Holmes and touching him while he urinates.
> 
> Fun fact: Victorian homes at that time had the bath and toilet separated, but I shamelessly ignored it, because it'd be too much moving around and I wasn't aware of that while writing it :V
> 
> On the subject of what Watson suffers from, I have no idea. Something evil. I always take it that Dark incarnations of characters in fics are possessed by the devil or something(figuratively speaking), because it's usually just them snapping and turning into violent sadists.


	13. Day 2: The ease of warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes has a little accident and Watson gives him a bath.
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

_Holmes nearly jumped when Watson sat the medical bag down on the table near the sink. The unsettling moment of silence was over and Watson's smile was replaced by a sterner expression, the strange glint in his eyes gone as soon as it'd appeared._

_“Lets have a look at those wrists shall we?”_  

Watson motioned for Holmes to turn around on the lid and he did so without protest, presenting his back and tied hands to the doctor and staring into the wall before him. His heart was still hammering loudly in his chest and it only worsened when Watson put his hands on him again. The bandages around Holmes' mangled wrists were slowly uncoiled, restraints loose enough for the doctor to do the job without untying his hands.

Holmes winced and made a small, pained sound at the back of his throat when the scabs forming on his skin stuck to the gauze, but Watson only tightened his grip on his arm as he discarded the bloody fabric and began rummaging through the Gladstone bag with his free hand.

“Shhh Holmes, be still. It's your own fault. If you hadn't been so stubborn..-”

A pause, the sound of a lid being unscrewed and then Watson's hands on his wrists again, rubbing and smearing the healing wounds with the cold cleansing cream. Holmes sat in complete silence and willed himself to focus on the soothing feeling of the lubricant covering up his mangled skin, rather than that of the burning fire in his thighs and buttocks.

Everything itched.

He wished the man would just let him stand up for the task, but he didn't dare voice his discomfort; not after the slip-up with the rug. Watson had obviously seen, predicted his actions and even  _enjoyed_  the brief look of pure unadulterated fear on his face when their eyes had met. The man was only waiting for an excuse to punish him for disobeying his orders again. Holmes was sure of it. 

He hadn't even recovered from the previous night's assault, let alone the beating in the bedroom, and giving Watson yet another mindless reason to hurt him was definitely out of the question, so he held his tongue and let the man work in silence. 

Once his wrists had been thoroughly cleaned and re-bandaged, the man moved down to the hand with the splintered finger, grasping it in a firm grip and slowly feeling his way up to the dislocated thumb until he pushed down on it at the base with two fingers. 

“Tell me when it hurts.”

Holmes jerked and let out a small whimper when a short stab of pain ran up through his arm, followed by a burning sensation in his thumb and palm. Watson nodded in response and removed the pressure. He rubbed Holmes' arm affectionately and patted him on the thigh as he spoke with a soft voice.

“The swelling will most likely die down in a week's time, you shouldn't worry, it's going to be fine.”

Watson squeezed his arm once and turned his attention to the bandaged ankle. It was likewise cleaned and smeared with the cream, but the doctor refrained from redressing the abrasion once he was done. 

“Nothing more than a superficial scrape really. It'll heal better in the fresh air, no need to keep it covered up.”

He stood up and wiped the leftover cream on his fingers off with a towel hanging by the sink. Holmes couldn't see him, but he heard the light rustle of fabric and the man's limping steps as he moved back to his seated form on the toilet. 

"I presumed worse, but it seems your recklessness hasn't caused too much damage. There'll be some scaring, but it most likely won't be very noticeable ."

Holmes was turned around with a tug on his arm and pulled up to stand and face the doctor. Watson looked quite content and satisfied with his examination and Holmes kept silent, thankful for being allowed to finally stand, while the man moved a hand up to caress the side of his face.

“I think the water's ready now.”

Watson led him to the tub with a hand positioned at his back and motioned for Holmes to lift his leg and step in once they reached the side of it. The doctor's hands supported him by his bound arms as Holmes reluctantly moved his right leg up and stepped into the tub.

“Be careful, you don't want to slip.“

The doctor sounded casual, but the light tremble to his hands and waver in his voice was a clear evidence of the man's excitement.

Holmes wasn't completely sure if Watson had always acted and sounded like that when he'd cared for him in the past.

The thought sent a shudder through his body.

Had the man spent his time planning – _lusting -_ for the right time to make his perverted fantasies come to life while bathing Holmes and caring for his wounds?

Had all of those times when Watson had stayed with him, despite his commitment to Mary, and listened to his ramblings, embraced him after a particularly difficult case, _comforted_ him and held Holmes' hand in his own as he reassured him of his brilliance and unique mind, simply been a means for the doctor to fulfil his own sexual desires?

He didn't want to think of it, but the thoughts kept coming back and he suddenly felt faint. The headache he'd been suffering from after waking up had returned, and Holmes closed his eyes against the throbbing pain piercing its way through his skull. His vision greyed out and he couldn't hear anything for a moment. Watson's voice sliced and diced its way through his brain, sounding far away and too loud at the same time. 

"You're looking awfully pale dear. Are you all right? Let me have a look."

Watson made to turn him around with a pull of his arm, and the motion alone was enough to make Holmes' stomach turn. 

"No!"

He might have yelled, he wasn't sure, but he pulled away from Watson's hovering hands, not able to hear the startled response from the doctor over the blood rushing in his ears. 

The situation – being trapped in this small room with his rapist, about to be bathed while restrained and most likely violated again by the very same hands he'd previously laid his life into without doubt - hit him with full force, and the bile he'd held onto since awakening shot its way up through his throat with a speed he hadn't thought possible.

Watson let go of him with a small yell when Holmes doubled over and vomited.

With the support from his arms gone, he had no other choice but to kneel in the tub as he expelled the food he'd been fed earlier.

His throat burned and the putrid smell of his own sick was quickly overflowing his nostrils and senses. Holmes could faintly see it sloshing down the tub's edge, nearing his bare legs, and all he could think of was if Watson would punish him for it.

He was gagging and heaving for breath by the time the man's hands returned to his shaking body. His chest hurt and he was crying again he realized, hiccuping and choking on the contents from his stomach while tears of exhaustion squeezed themselves out of his stinging eyes.

A steady hand placed itself on his forehead and held him upright while another moved over his back in small, soothing circles.

“There there old boy. It's nothing to worry about, just a little accident. Must've been a bad piece of fruit I bet.”

They stayed like that for a while. Holmes kneeling and heaving on the bottom of the tub with strings of spit and vomit hanging from his shaking lips while Watson sat on the edge and ran his hands through his hair, holding him upright as he kept muttering to himself about what the cause of the sudden sickness could be.

“Perhaps a delayed reaction to the anaesthetic? No. The dose was right, I made sure of it. Holmes-”

Holmes' head was pulled back to rest on the man's thigh and Watson's concerned face stared down at him while a hand brushed his wet hair away from his eyes.

“-how do you feel? Any pain here?”

The doctor pressed the tip of his fingers to Holmes' temples and he weakly shook his head. His abdomen and throat was on fire, and while his head hurt - _everything hurts_ \- he knew it wasn't the cause of his vomiting; and so did the man above him. Yet Watson kept asking him and checking various parts of his body for any signs of illness.

“How about your stomach? You haven't been eating right have you? Did you feel light-headed when waking up? Are your feet cold?-”

The doctor ran his hands over Holmes' clammy back and settled at the side of his upturned neck to feel his pulse.

“Quicker than usual, but that's to be expected.”

A hand on his forehead, turning him around and forcing him to look up.

“Let me check your pupils.”

Holmes laid still while drawing in harsh gulps of air as he faintly starred at the small trail of stomach fluid that had slid down from his chin and onto the doctor's finely pressed trousers. Watson's weigh shifted as he moved backwards, and he pulled Holmes with him with a gentle hand on the back of his head while he fumbled for something in his medical bag.

Holmes winced and shied away when a sharp light was shoved in his face, but Watson only frowned and held him fast while he forced his lids apart with careful fingers and exposed his left eye. Holmes' world went completely white for a second and he briefly panicked and tried wrenching away. He was told to keep still and held down as Watson repeated the procedure on the second eye.

After what seemed like ages to Holmes, the doctor finally removed his fingers and shut the small torch off.

“A little dilated. Do you feel feverish?”

The hand was back to his forehead and Holmes shook his head again. Watson nodded and slowly moved Holmes' head from his lap to rest on the side of the tub's edge as he stood up.

“All right. I don't think you've come down with anything. Your skin's already getting its colour back. You tell me if you start to feel nauseous again.”

He didn't answer the doctor. The thought of what the man would do to him now, or after the bath, was enough to make his body convulse again. Watson's hand rested on his shoulder, but he didn't want to turn his head and look at him.

The concern he'd seen in the man's face, compared to that of the unadulterated rage he'd been sporting a few hours earlier, was too much like the doctor's usual self for Holmes to bear. 

He could almost fool himself into believing the passing day had only been a fever-caused dream that he'd woken up from just now. That Watson had done none of those... _things_ and was only there to help him, as he'd always been.

He knew it wasn't true.

The pain in his thighs and entrance was definitely not the after-effects of a bad fever sleep, and while Watson sounded and looked seemingly normal, his eyes still had a strange shine to them, wider than usual and constantly fixed on Holmes' body. Something about the way the man moved, how his hands possessively trailed over the bite mark on Holmes' neck again and again and kept stroking his hair with lightly shaking fingers, betrayed his calm voice and demeanour.

“Holmes. I need you to promise me you'll tell.”

The man's voice was sterner than it'd been a few minutes ago, but still low, as if not to startle him and Holmes turned his head and nodded. His throat protested and closed up and it hurt to get the words out, but he still managed to reassure the doctor of his obedience.

“I promise.”

“Good.”

Watson smiled and bent down to place a small kiss against his temple before he stood up and walked to the sink.

The man returned to the tub with a wet towel and a glass of water which Holmes thankfully drank from once it was presented to his lips, desperate to be free of the disgusting taste of his own bile sloshing around in his mouth.

Watson set the glass down on the floor once he'd finished and began soaking up the mess in the bottom of the tub with the damp fabric. When he'd gotten most of it, he discarded the towel and moved over to Holmes' kneeling form. Holmes yelped when his arms were wrenched backwards and over the tub's side, pressing him tightly against the cold porcelain and putting a rather painful amount of pressure on his shoulders.

“I'm sorry, I know it's uncomfortable like this, but I can't have you getting the splint and bandages wet. Here, stretch your legs.”

The doctor helped him sit, but he was still largely uncomfortable. The tub's cold, hard bottom felt like ice against his sore backside and he whimpered and tried lifting himself to no avail. He couldn't pull himself up or even move more than a few inches without sending bolts of pain through his upper arms. The belts dug in and pinched his skin when he shifted and he eventually had to settle down, out of breath and still able to smell the rest of his sick left in the tub. It made his stomach squirm and he was almost about to start gagging again.

Holmes swallowed it down and held still. He wasn't willing to push his luck with Watson, even though he seemed in a docile mood. 

Watson nodded in satisfaction and moved to the end of the tub to turn the knob. Holmes gasped and jerked as the cold water touched his legs, it wasn't freezing, having been warmed by the summer heat of the day, but it wasn't very soothing or comfortable either. He watched as the last of his sick was washed away into the drain before Watson put the stopper in to let the water flow as he stood up.

“I'll get the heated water, you stay put.”

Holmes nodded, knowing he wouldn't be able to get up unassisted even if he tried, and Watson shot him one last smile before he ventured out of the door. Holmes sat in silence and watched as the water ran up his legs to pool around his thighs and back.

Goosebumps had begun developing on the surface of his skin and he couldn't stop his teeth from chattering once the water reached his middle. The bottom half of his body was almost fully submerged when Watson unlocked the door and returned to the room, carrying two steaming buckets of boiling water.

He sat them down before the tub with a loud 'clank' and pulled over a small stool to sit on beside Holmes' shivering form.

“This'll warm you up in no time, you just relax.”

The steaming content of one of the buckets was slowly poured in the tub, heating up the cold water and overflowing Holmes' aching limbs with warmth. Watson checked the temperature with a finger once the level had reached Holmes' chest, nodded in satisfaction and turned on the knob to stop the flow of cool water.

“There, how's that? Not too hot?”

He shook his head again and added a small “It's fine.” when Watson's eyes narrowed. The doctor accepted the answer and pulled the other bucket close to him.

A big sponge was presented and dipped in the warm water before Watson brought it down to Holmes' stomach and lower chest to scrub at the sweat and come that had dried to the skin there. Watson made small humming sounds of approval and nodded his head now and then as the filth gradually came off, disappearing into the clear water below.

Holmes had taken to observing his own and Watson's reflection in the mirror above them. He looked pale as a ghost, spittle and snot still running down his face until Watson wiped at it with a soft brush of the sponge. He stared at himself in the steamed glass as the doctor pulled his arms up to wash his sides, watched his own drowsy expression when his body turned heavy as the warm water began loosening up his muscles. The bite wound was washed and cleansed off of blood and the water around his body turned a darkened tinge of pink for a brief moment as Watson scrubbed at it.

Watson put the sponge down and pulled over the second bucket, still filled to the brim with hot water, and Holmes closed his eyes when about half of the bucket's contents were poured over his head. The doctor's hands returned, now smelling of something lavender and slick with soap, to rub against his scalp. He kept his eyes closed as the man ran his hands through his mattered hair and tugged out the knots that had developed overnight and during his struggles.

Watson shielded his eyes from the soap with a soft hand when he poured the rest of the water over Holmes' head, grabbed for the sponge again and motioned for Holmes to lean up against his chest. He did so slowly, heart skipping a beat when the man's arm closed over his chest in a tight embrace while the hand wielding the sponge went lower and into the water, just above his stomach.

Holmes opened his mouth in a short gasp and pushed up against the doctor's chest when the sponge trailed near his privates, but Watson shushed him and moved himself forwards to place a tender kiss at the side of Holmes' swollen mouth before whispering against his skin.

“You're doing great. God I've waited – waited for so long to touch you like this. ”

Holmes bit the inner side of his cheek and clenched his hands when the hand on his chest surged downwards to grasp his limp cock, holding it upright in the water while Watson gently dabbed at his genitals with the sponge and ran his soaped up fingers over his abdomen and inner thighs, thoroughly cleaning him and scrubbing the soap into his reddened skin.

His own expression in the mirror was painful to watch, stricken with shame and fear, but he didn't know where else to look. Watson kept moving his lips over Holmes' cheeks and jaw while he groped him, breathing heavily into his ear and whispering about the things he'd longed to do to him - how he'd always wanted to take care of Holmes like this, to watch him come undone - had fought to restrain himself whenever they'd been together and alone.

“It was hard at times, almost painful, but this Holmes... This makes it all worth it, every single hour and day. All of those months spent thinking of you beneath me when I had nothing but my hand or Mary to fulfil my needs with. Don't get me wrong, she's an amazing woman, quite a catch some would say, but nothing compared to you. Nothing.”

A light squeeze of his member while the sponge moved over his stomach.

“I know you worried, were jealous even; but know this Holmes, I always thought of you. "

Watson moved his head down to kiss the wound on Holmes' neck, sticking his tongue out to lick and suck at the tender skin as he continued whispering out his fantasies in a deep, husky voice.

"It's true. I would lie there, picturing you beside me in bed at night instead of her. I spent so many evenings in her embrace, wondering of how you'd taste, what sounds you'd make as I took you, the feeling of your body around me. Even as we made love, when I kissed her and ran my hands over her wanton body, I thought of you. Always.”

It was everything he'd never wanted to hear from the man's mouth, and Holmes desperately tried blocking the voice out.

_Think of something else._

He tried recalling the sight of Irene's face, illuminated by the lamps in the streets. Gladstone standing over the ruined remains of his most favoured pair of slippers. The familiar feeling of the glazed wood against his cheek as he tested the strings on his violin. Lestrade's disbelieving face when he'd reached the conclusion to a case in the matter of seconds...  _Tea, Sarasate, cocaine, the boxing ring, opera -_

He thought of all of these things, but Watson's words still reached his ears, burning their way into his mind and simultaneously tainting every single ounce of joy or happiness he'd ever felt in the man's presence.

The sponge was floating freely around in the water and Watson had stopped speaking, having resigned to just touching Holmes and running his hands over his immobile body while covering his face and upper neck with small kisses. Holmes couldn't stop his legs from twitching whenever the man's fingers trailed over his member or pinched the inner side of his thigh, but he didn't utter a sound. 

After a while Watson pulled him close and buried his nose in his hair as he held him. The man's upper body and clothing was completely soaked, but he didn't seem to mind. He just sat in silence and hugged Holmes tight to his chest while he breathed heavily into his hair.

In the reflection on the wall they looked like lovers, caught in an intimate embrace, and Holmes couldn't stop staring at it - at the way Watson smiled against the back of his head, how the doctor's hands tightened possessively over his chest as he took a deep breath and inhaled with closed eyes, as if savouring the feel and smell of Holmes' newly-washed body for later.

Holmes' own eyes were staring back at him from the mirror, impossibly dark and half closed. He was tired, so tired. The warm water had calmed his body and softened up his muscles, and he found he had a hard time keeping his head upright without putting too much strain on his neck. After much inner conflict, he reluctantly let it rest on Watson's shoulder.

The man took it as an invitation and responded immediately by leaning over and kissing him passionately on the mouth. Holmes kept his lips firmly closed, but let Watson do as he pleased, too exhausted to put up a fight. He didn't even jerk or attempt to pull away when the doctor's hand once again found his member and began massaging the flesh while he kept their mouths pressed together.

When Holmes parted his lips in a small moan in response to the touch, Watson saw his chance and stuck his tongue in, trailing it along the inner side of Holmes' cheeks and breathing heavily into his mouth with every stroke of his hand. Holmes whimpered and coughed as the sudden intrusion made it hard to breathe steadily, He wanted to bite down, as he'd done the other night, wrench himself away from Watson's grip on him in revulsion, but his arms were almost numb and his legs felt like they were made of gelatine. He couldn't even move his head away properly and evade the kiss. 

His member was, thankfully, still limp when Watson pulled back. Holmes could see the man's growing erection from the corner of his eyes and he shut them tightly when Watson bent down to place one last kiss on his lips before he stood up with a satisfied sigh.

“That was lovely Holmes, really, thank you, but I think it's best we get you out of the water now. it's starting to get cold. ”

With that Watson strode to the other end of the tub and pulled the stopper from the drain to let the water out. Holmes watched in dreadful silence as the water swirled around his legs before being sucked down through the small hole, taking all his filth and bodily fluids with it.

He suddenly found that he didn't want to leave the tub - didn't want to stand up and face the doctor in fear of what the he might do to him once he was completely done cleaning and drying his aching body. Who knew what other plans the lunatic had for him? He was positive Watson wasn't just going to ignore his own arousal and not act upon his perverted fantasies again. So far the man seemed only to have one goal in mind, to hurt and humiliate him, so Holmes wasn't very keen on moving on to another, possibly more dangerous scenario.

Watson returned to his side and tilted his chin upwards with a gentle hand while he took a hold of Holmes' arm with the other.

"Here, let me help you." 

The man's eyes were shining with unhidden lust and anticipation. His hands were hot and clammy against the cooling skin on Holmes' chest as he helped him stand in the tub. Holmes lifted his legs when he was told to, almost as if in a trance, and let himself be led by the doctor across the room to sit on the toilet seat again, dripping water everywhere and slightly shivering from the cold.

A big towel was pulled forth from under the sink and Watson silently began drying him, ruffling up his hair and wiping off his cold feet and legs. The doctor took his time with his privates, brushing over the same spots again and again and making a small delighted sound in the back of his throat when Holmes' member stirred in response to the gentle touches.  

“Don't worry, I'll attend to all of your needs, there's time for that once we're done.”

A slight squeeze and an amused smile from the man that made Holmes want to curl up on the floor and die with the indignity of it. Now there was no doubt in his mind. He would not be left alone, he would not be allowed to sleep once they were done. Watson would be expecting him to comply, pleasure him in some way, and Holmes would have no other choice but to do so.

He realized, heart sitting in his throat, that he would have to make his move, a last escape attempt, before he let Watson confine him to the bedroom again. He couldn't go through that again, _wouldn't_. 

As for now, he was trapped, but once out of the door, if Watson trusted him enough and slackened his grip for one moment... he could...

Yes.

Holmes was quick on his feet, had always been a good runner and Watson, with his injured leg, tired quicker and was often more prone to falling over or behind. If he timed it right, it was doable.

He saw the layout of the lower floor before his inner eye, the stairs, hall and dining room. If he reached the window in the hall, he might have luck shouting for help, or even simply jump out of it. While running around naked in the middle of night in the streets of London wasn't the most dignified thing, it definitely wouldn't be the most bizarre someone caught him doing and if it meant his escape...

The towel brushed suggestively over his crotch again and he could see Watson's gloating smile, his eyes watching Holmes intensively for a reaction. He could feel his own face reddening while disgust boiled in his insides.

He could do it. He had to.

_The moment he lets his guard down. Down the stairs, into the hall, shouldn't take more than a few seconds. Get out, to Mycroft, safety._

_Yes._

_I_ _can do it._

He kept repeating the words in his head as Watson fondled him and finished drying the rest of his body - when the man bent down and kissed his forehead.

_I can do it._

When he couldn't stop staring at the small tent in the doctor's trousers, see the look of anticipation and excitement on the man's aroused face. 

_I can-._

Watson's hand settled on his shoulder and cold fingers, slick with cream, began massaging it into the skin around the burning bite mark on his neck. The doctor beamed down at him, dried off his fingers once done, and retrieved a pair of medical gloves from his bag. 

"We're almost done, I just need to check and clean the area around the stitches, make sure they're healing well"

 _I can do it. I can- Please God, let it work. Please don't let it go any further -_   _._

Holmes kept his eyes focused on the floor as Watson lead him to the sink table. His knees were shaking, and even though he'd been dried thoroughly, he was still cold. Watson's voice was gentle and soft, but Holmes' throat still closed up in fear when the man ordered him to bend over.

"I need you to be very still, else it'll hurt. Do you understand me?"

A hand pressed down on his neck when he didn't immediately answer, and Holmes swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat with a pained wheeze. He most of all wanted to plead with the man, beg him to reconsider his actions again, but instead he nodded quietly and did as he was told, lying in complete silence over the table and feeling the edge press uncomfortably against his stomach.

Watson muttered something to himself and patted Holmes' upturned behind affectionately before he pulled the gloves on with a snapping sound.

"Great. Don't worry Holmes. This'll be over in just a minute, you've had worse."

The doctor's hands settled on his backside and Holmes closed his eyes and stared into nothing as the man nudged his legs apart with a knee.

 _I can do it. Wait for the right moment. Not yet. The door's locked, can't get out yet. Wait_

_Please._

Something cold probed at his entrance, slick with lubricant, and he bit his lip and clenched his hands when Watson spread him.

_Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Vomiting  
> Watson bathing Holmes, not without groping and being creepily caring of course
> 
> Was a little bit sick while writing, thus I felt the need to add in a vomiting scene. That's how nice I am.  
> Thanks for reading and commenting <3


	14. Day 2: The loathing of the waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes makes a dash for it, Watson doesn't approve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on I'll have the warnings in the end notes, it suddenly dawned on me that some people might want to read without spoilers at the start, I know I do. *insert innocent face here*  
> Please check the bottom of each chapter to avoid any unpleasant surprises if you have trigger problems.

_Something cold probed at his entrance, slick with lubricant, and he bit his lip and clenched his hands when Watson spread him._

_Please._  

It burned when Watson's lubed finger entered him, and though Holmes knew the pitiful sounds he was making were probably only exciting the man, he couldn't stop from whimpering when it pushed upwards as Watson spread him and observed the damage.

“Shhhh I know, It's all right.”

The finger was joined by another, stretching out his sore opening and sending small stabs of pain through his abdomen. Holmes blinked furiously and fought not to push away. He wouldn't accomplish anything by it, other than the doctor's annoyance, but the urge was overwhelming. His entrance still felt like hell and the cold fingers might as well have been made of sharp ice pickles rather than flesh and blood.

 _Think of something else, think of something else,_ anything _but this._

He tried to focus on his own harsh breathing and the small droplets of water trailing down the faucet's head beside him, following them with his eyes as they fell and counting the seconds as they hit the water below.

 _One, two, three, four, five, six,_ drop _, one, two three, four, five, six,_ drop _, one -_

He jerked and had to start over when one of the fingers grazed a tear and Watson made a muttered apology and resumed his examination, muttering something inaudible to himself now and then as he prodded along Holmes' opening. _One, two, three, four,_ drop _, one two tree four, five, six,_ drop, _one-_

He'd counted two hundred and thirty-four drops when Watson finally removed his fingers with a satisfied sound and a pat to Holmes' beaten thigh.

“You're quite red, but the tears are only centered around the entrance, no internal damage or infection. I'll need to remove the stitches in a few days. This one, here-”

Holmes clenched down when a thumb brushed the spot and pushed up against the table with a short yelp, and Watson quickly pulled back.

“No matter. What's important is that they're healing well, at least for now. You only have three, and two of them might not even have been needed in hindsight, but one can never be too careful around these things.”

He mumbled some more to himself and moved a reassuring hand over the lower end of Holmes' back, still spreading him with his other without touching the stitched area.

“It'll be quite the fiddling work to remove properly without assistance though, I may need to use the speculum.”

Watson pulled back with a sigh and stroked Holmes' hip affectionately as he let go with the hand spreading him and reached for something to the side.

“Does it hurt badly?”

_Yes._

Holmes averted his gaze from the sink and turned his head to look at the man. The doctor apparently didn't need any other answer than his expression, because he simply nodded his head and motioned for Holmes to lie down again. A finger, now covered with cream, rubbed against the red skin as he spoke in a slightly strained voice.

“I'll give you a small dose of morphine to take the pain, but only this one time. I meant what I said. I can not stand you when you use.”

Holmes swallowed. He wanted, more than anything else, to accept the drug - let it drown out his fear and leave him to rest comfortably, but if he let himself be dosed by the man....

The trip down the stairs to the window would be slow in an addled state, near impossible when put together with Holmes' exhaustion and unsteady legs in mind. Watson would be upon him in no time, and there was no doubt as to what the man intended to do with him once they reached the bedroom. _Defilement._  A shiver ran through his cold body.

Was a bit of prolonged pain not manageable, if the consequences of not enduring it was staying under the care of Watson as he was now?

Yes, Holmes decided. _Yes it is_. He would not succumb to his own need for relief. He would endure, keep his mind functioning and alert.

_I will refuse. And I will succeed._

With these thoughts he shook his head and turned around again to face the doctor, steadying his voice to sound as calm and ordinary as he could.

“I'd rather you not. You're quite right Watson, the drug makes me feel terribly drowsy. I fear I won't make it out of the door. I'd like to be awake for now. At least till we reach the bedroom.”

Watson's eyes widened, then narrowed suspiciously and Holmes forced himself to look him in the eye, firmly, like a man who had nothing to hide. The doctor observed his face carefully, mouth slightly downturned, but then calmed his expression with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Very well. There's no sense in me carrying you to the bed, if that's how tired you are.”

Holmes nodded.

“I am. Deeply so.” It wasn't a lie, he hadn't slept properly for two days.

Watson hummed and began peeling off his gloves.

“I'm quite tired from today myself I must admit.”

Hands settled on Holmes' shoulders and gently pulled him back to stand upright. Watson kept his eyes on him, smile still plastered on his face, when he brought his hand down to rest on Holmes' member.

“The warmth of the bed will do us both good.”

Holmes held his breath and fixed his eyes on the man's wet collar when a thumb darted out to rub against the head of his softened cock. Watson had moved his gaze down from Holmes' face to the flesh in his hand, observing it curiously while he pushed it up against Holmes' stomach with the flat of his palm.

He'd anticipated this, but Holmes still mumbled the word out into the room, as if he'd never heard it before.

“ _The bed_...”

Watson nodded absently, keeping his eyes on his own hand fondling Holmes' limp member.

“Well yes, it's getting late. You didn't sleep last night.”

Watson moved his eyes up to meet Holmes' for a brief moment and frowned.

“Don't give me that look Holmes. I'm your doctor, I can tell.”

Holmes was stiff as a statue. It was getting increasingly harder not to make sound or pull away. The man just wouldn't stop touching him, trying to force more reactions out of his exhausted body. Even now, when he could clearly tell it wasn't going to amount to anything. Watson kept talking while he groped him. It was as if the doctor was completely oblivious to his discomfort, or simply chose to ignore it in the strangest fashion.

“I'll need to change the sheets and take Gladstone out for a quick stroll before we go to rest. The poor dog, he hasn't seen any attention since this morning.“

He sighed and moved his free hand up to take hold of the belt encircling Holmes' arms, lightly scratching at the material with a nail as he appeared to be having some sort of inner conflict with himself.

“I'd like to believe you would heed my word and behave while I'm gone, but for now I think it's best you remain restrained.”

Holmes' breath stilled. If he could convince Watson of untying his hands, his chances of escape once out of the room would be marginally heightened.

Even though he fought to remain clam, his voice sounded strained, _panicked_ , and it was obvious he was desperate in his pursuit to be free of the restraints.

“There's no need for that. I promise you. I'l..-” He tightened his jaw and looked up, staring into the man's observing eyes. “I'll behave. You-”

Holmes flinched and the plead got stuck in his throat when the hand on his cock pressed down. Watson shushed him and shook his head in a tired fashion as he brought a hand up to pinch his nose while standing back, letting go of Holmes' member in the process when his other hand settled on his hip.

“I will not have this discussion with you now. I'm tired and so are you. We'll see tomorrow.”

Holmes swallowed his retort down and moved his eyes downwards to the floor again. Usually he'd make sure he obtained the last word in a discussion, but he wasn't about to anger the man further before the chance to escape presented itself. He would be worth nothing if he were to spend another night tied down and Holmes didn't even want to think about what another round of 'lessons' would reduce him to.

He was still in some kind of dull state of shock from the evening before and the acceptance of what had happened, what the man done to him, was only just now beginning to settle in his mind - rotting him up from the inside with pictures of himself lying on the bed and moaning like a sodden whore while Watson forced his way into his -  _  
_

Holmes jerked away with a startled gasp when Watson's hand settled on the back of his neck. _  
_

“Come now, let me help you.”

He was pulled to the door with a hand around the belt securing his arms. Watson took a moment to unlock the door and took hold of Holmes again once done with a gentle, but firm grip. He stumbled after the man as he was moved over the step and into the small hall leading to the bedroom and kitchen. They began to walk, slowly and in silence. _Once he's at the door, down the stairs, to the window, get out._

Holmes' heart was hammering violently in his chest and he briefly wondered if Watson would hear, but the man didn't seem to notice, only smiled down at his shivering form and grasped the handle of the bedroom door.

A numbing wave of adrenaline surged through Holmes' body once the man's grip on the belt loosened for a brief moment during the opening of the door. This was his last chance. If he were to fail now, he might as well have let Watson dose him and leave him in a haze for the next degradation of his body. 

The door creaked. In the span of half a second, as Watson was about to pull him through, Holmes wrenched himself away with all of his strength and kicked out, hearing a startled yell from behind him as he turned from the man and began sprinting to the stairs.

" _Sherlock!_ ”

He tumbled down the fine mahogany, sparing no time to look behind and see the man he knew was in stark pursuit. The sound of Watson's sharp footsteps on the stairs was blending in with his own. _Four steps, three steps, two steps ohgod please-_ Holmes felt something twitch in his left ankle when his bare foot slid on the last step, sending him crashing into the wall shoulder-first with a pained yelp.

He scrambled on the ground as he fought to push himself upright using the wall as support. The moment he caught a glimpse of Watson in the corner of his sight, standing in the middle of the stairs, completely wild in the face, he began screaming.

There wouldn't be time to get out, he knew that now, but the window near the end of the hall had been left open to let the fresh night air in. There would still be people in the streets. Surely someone would hear. Surely there would be people close enough to notice. The horrid sound of his own terrified screeching would have been embarrassing in any other situation, but he couldn't stop. There were no words or sentences involved, just horrified keens of desperation in the hope that someone nearby would hear it.

No one came. The streets were absent of sound or activity. His throat started to give out and he pushed up against the wall and kicked out when a hand pulled him backwards. Unable to catch himself, Holmes fell to the floor with an undignified squeak.

When Watson's hand wrenched him up by his hair and he was presented with the man's electrifying stare, he started begging - voice high pitched and hysterical. Any pride he had left had been drowned out by the sheer terror he felt by looking at the doctor's face. He didn't care how he looked or sounded anymore, he just wanted it to stop.

“ _Stop! please!_   _Stop!_ _I'm sorry._ I'm- Watson, it's me! _It's me!!!_ ”

A heavy hand at the back of his neck pushed him into the wall headfirst and he immediately stopped babbling. Watson's voice was low and full of spite, shaking slightly from the rage Holmes could feel radiating off of the man from his forceful grip on him.

“If I hear one more lie coming from you tonight Holmes-”

Holmes yelped as he was slammed into the wall again. Watson's knee was pushing up against his shaking legs, pressing him flatly into the panels and he opened his mouth to apologize again.

“ I'm sor-”

He was wrenched around and slapped viciously before he could finish. Watson's face was inches from his own, snarl present under the slightly bristling moustache, pupils dilated and darkening out his grey-blue eyes.

“Not another word, do you hear me?!”

Holmes bit his lip, tasted the fresh blood in his mouth and sniffled as he looked down at the floor. He nodded silently, keeping his gaze lowered when the hand in his hair pulled him away from the wall and back towards the stairs. Something had definitely been pulled in his ankle during his fall. It wouldn't stop wobbling when he put weight on it, and he was forced to limp up the steps to keep up with Watson's fast tempo, lest he wanted to be dragged the remaining way by the harsh grip in his hair.

 _Pathetic. Truly pathetic_.

The words echoed in his head, and he found himself close to weeping loudly again.

There was nothing to hope for now, nothing to stop Watson from doing as he desired once they reached the bed. The man would not go easy on him. Holmes had lied, straight to his face. What punishment would Watson apply to such an offence?

His lungs felt too small and he couldn't get enough air in through his gasping mouth. He regretted not accepting the morphine when Watson had given him the chance. Now he'd have to endure whatever the man had in store for him while alert and aware.

The doctor didn't utter a word, but his hands were trembling and he moved Holmes after him in small violent jerks until they reached the half-opened door to Holmes' room. He was pushed in and hit the floor, where he curled up and pulled his legs towards his front while Watson strode past his fallen body to the bed without a sound.

The doctor returned a few minutes after, clad in a dry shirt and with the previously discarded belt in hand, and Holmes looked up, silently pleading for the man to take pity on him.

He was beyond terrified.

Watson avoided looking him in the eye and dragged Holmes to the end of the bed with a harsh grip around the restrains on his arms.

He was pushed up against the bed post, and he bit down a pained wail when his sore ankle was wrenched backwards and behind the wood. Watson pulled his other leg back in the same manner and trapped both of Holmes' feet behind him, securing them to the bed post with the belt and forcing him to spread his legs uncomfortably. His wrists were likewise secured above his ankles and behind his back to the post, and he whimpered and shifted his weight on his knees as Watson stood back.

The cravat, crusted with Holmes' own blood, was shoved in his face.

“Open your mouth.”

Holmes looked up, nothing but misery in his expression. He fought to keep his tears at bay as he parted his lips, but he couldn't help but attempt to plead with the man again while he still had the use of his voice.

“Watson I-”

The words died on his tongue when he was slapped harshly again, unable to recoil from the blow while tied down.

“SHUT UP!”

Holmes gasped and failed to close his mouth before the cravat was shoved in, slightly choking him and tickling the back of throat as Watson tied it in place while cursing to himself in a low, hurried voice.

He was helpless to do anything but follow the man's movements with his eyes as he stood up to tower over his immobile form. Watson observed him for a few seconds in the darkness, then took a step forwards and hovered his left shoe over Holmes' crotch, face devoid of any emotion when he pressed it down.

Holmes arched his back uselessly against the post and howled into the gag as he thumped the back of his head into the wood. He was close to vomiting again when the shoe was lifted after a few seconds. The man had applied a decent amount of pressure to his genitals, and the flesh was throbbing and swelling beneath him, sending a thick wave of agonizing pain up through his groin and stomach.

He couldn't even curl up or close his legs against against it, could do nothing but sit there and wheeze out into the room as Watson stared down at him with a blank expression.

The doctor strode to the side of the bed, sparing Holmes' miserable form several disgusted looks as he removed the filthy sheets from the mattress and bundled them up in his hands. Holmes fought to keep silent; he was still breathing out in small pained gasps, but it hurt. Everything hurt and the position he'd been tied down in forced him to shift his weight on his knees and calves and he had already lost the feeling of his feet and _possibly_ sprained ankle.

His beaten thighs and arse pressed heavily down against his lower legs and the floor, and the sore skin was being stretched uncomfortably while he was forced to kneel. Watson moved past him with the dirty bedding, not stopping to say anything or look at Holmes as he made his exit. Holmes jumped when the door was slammed, still tense as he heard the man's footsteps disappear down the stairs.

He was left alone, breathing heavily through his nose and staring with wet eyes into the pitch black darkness of his own bedroom. His ears perked at the sound of Gladstone's barking, then Watson's footsteps on the pavement and the click of the lock moving in place below. Holmes sat in complete silence, focusing on his breathing and adjusting his sight to the dark.

He couldn't calm himself.

He was cold, his thighs and arms were shaking from the strain of the painful position. He fumbled his numbs fingers at the belt holding his ankles in place, but he couldn't get a hold on anything, not even when he moved his arms back as far as possible and the movement sent shards of glass through his abdomen.

Holmes breathed in a muffled sob and pulled forwards - harder when nothing gave. He was grunting and gasping into the gag as he pushed his feet against the floor and threw himself away from the post. The bonds held. There was no weakness to be explored, no feasible way to escape the room and his confinement.

Watson would be back.

_Don't panic._

He screamed uselessly into the cravat and pulled on the restraints with all his strength. No one could hear him, his voice was hoarse and giving away constantly and the fabric muffled everything out, but he still howled and whined, pulling furiously on his bonds till his swollen thumb and the exhaustion forced him to stop. Once he had to accept that he wasn't leaving his spot on the floor without assistance, he cried -  jerking his lower body weakly upwards to lessen the pressure on his legs as his chest contorted with painful hiccups, weeping and cursing out into the darkness while his aching privates dragged against the floor. 

_Calm. Be calm. Think._

Holmes rested his head against the post and closed his eyes, breathing heavily through the gag as he felt the warm tears dry on his trembling face. His panicked tantrum had only lasted for about five minutes, and he was completely spent from it. Everything was shaking, aching or itching and he had no way of making himself more comfortable. His eyes darted around the darkened room.

The morocco case was still present on his work table were he'd left it and he fixed his gaze on the object, picturing the readied syringe - dose measured two days ago - and cursing himself for the hundredth time for refusing the offer of morphine.

What would the man force him to endure once he returned from walking the dog? Holmes swallowed heavily and shifted his weight to his good leg once his twisted ankle began twitching. _What do I do?_   _What do I do?_

The question kept returning to him. Should he apologize? Would Watson even care?

Would the man be pleased if he cried and pleaded for forgiveness? Refrain from hurting him if Holmes begged him not to? He'd certainly enjoy it.   

Holmes grit his teeth.

The anger he'd experienced from earlier during his day in captivity threatened to overcome him again. Why was he even considering playing along with this madman's perverse game? It would amount to nothing but more pain and humiliation. If he let Watson treat him like a cowed victim, he'd eventually become one and he'd already- had already...

He'd cried, begged like an idiot and kept his head down like some sort of beaten animal while Watson had had his way with him, hurt him, _humiliated_ him.

Watson knew of his fears, all of them. The man knew he loathed being reprieved of control, knew of Holmes' lack of carnal pursuit, knew why he kept his mind distracted at all times to shut out the cluster of information and senses that continuously flooded his brain on difficult days. Watson would help him then, listen to Holmes as he ranted and fumbled about with his notes, would be there to answer him and tell him to lie down, fix him tea and read the paper aloud as they rested on the bed.

Holmes bit down a sob and shook his head. Damn him. _Damn him!_

He would _not_ beg once Watson returned. He would _not_ lie to satisfy the man's sexual fantasies. Even if he managed to grovel and plead enough to appease him, Watson would soon enough find something else to excuse a punishment, and how much more degradation and manhandling could his body and mind take before someone came to his rescue? If he gave in to the doctor's sick demands now, he would be actively reinforcing his maddened beliefs, and worst of all, it would mean he'd given up all hope of reasoning with him.

He could not let that happen.

Holmes would hold his stance once Watson returned. To hell with his threats and demands! He would not be rendered to a pliant pleasure slave because he was too scared to openly confront the doctor.

_“ If I hear one more lie coming from you tonight Holmes-”_

Watson had snarled out the command himself, claimed to want nothing but the truth from him. And he would get it. Once Holmes was free of the cravat, there would be _no holding back_ he promised himself. He would explain to Watson, in a clear, steady voice just what he thought of his advances and that he would take no part in this, whatever the man thought _this_ was, willingly.

And so he waited, stomach boiling with a mixture of anger and dread while the bonds cut into his trembling limbs and made the nerves in his neck stand on end.

A small hour had passed when he heard the door being unlocked downstairs. Holmes twitched and groaned when he moved his sore shoulders in order to look up, staring at the door in apprehension while he heard the sounds of his captor moving around in the flat.

Even though he knew he wasn't going to fall back on refusing the man, the sound of Watson advancing still sent shivers through his kneeling body. Nothing could be done to prevent the fear, and it had only intensified as he'd waited. Terrified thoughts of what the man intended to do to him - how he'd react to being denied once again, if he'd simply hit Holmes or do something much worse this time, kept forcing it's way through the tired haze of his mind.

He shot his eyes down and stared at his reddened knees when the door opened. Watson was carrying a small light with him, and Holmes winched and blinked when it came nearer. It was set down next to him on the floor and Watson lowered himself beside it to sit on his haunches, staring directly into Holmes' face with a tired expression. His voice was quiet and thoughtful, not exposing the maddened anger Holmes new to lie beneath the surface.

“I've been thinking Holmes, an awful lot... this past year. About you and me. I know...” Watson paused and shot his eyes down to Holmes' throbbing crotch before he brought a hand to his own forehead and massaged the skin between his eyes while speaking again, sounding slightly pained.

“I know you have no idea of what to do, no previous experience. It must be frightening, I understand. But for once Holmes, for once during our time together, _I_ am the one who has the answers. _I_ am the one knows the solution. All of this hysteric commotion and struggling is a clear evidence of your unwillingness to face your own basic desires. Are you embarrassed perhaps?”

Watson gazed him up and down with half-lidded eyes, then shook his head with a small, tired laugh.

“Well it really doesn't matter to me either way, because whatever it is that's bothering you, making you behave this way, is getting on my nerves in the most insufferable way. I know you're tired, clearly a little beside yourself, and this is all very new to you I admit.”

Holmes kept his eyes lowered, it wasn't as if he could answer and it seemed Watson was content with having the conversation stay one sided.

“On the way home, I thought of what I would have to do, to make you stop. And you know what old boy? It shouldn't have, but it made me feel terrible. I do so hate seeing you in pain.”

_Liar._

If there was one thing Holmes had learned in the man's care for the past day, it was that he took great pleasure in causing him hurt and injury.

The doctor continued.

“I'm inclined to let it pass, just for this night, if you apologize and admit your love for me, that you have thought of this as I have. Wanted it. That it was in fear of your own carnal desires you fled. Tell me you love me and it will be undone.”

Watson's hand moved to the shirtsleeve and Holmes spit to the side when his mouth was freed of the cravat. The hand stayed at the side of his face, petting his cheek softly as he drew in a few gulps of strained air. The promise of hurt was clear, but he'd already decided, he would not cower.

Holmes met the man's eyes with his own and shook his head slowly as he spoke.

“As I recall, you strictly demanded that I refer from ever lying in your presence again.”

Watson pulled back with a stricken face, as if he'd been slapped, and Holmes couldn't help but feel some horrible enjoyment of sorts from the sight, even while knowing he would most likely be punished for his words.

“You were...” he could hear his voice breaking, but held his gaze and kept his expression blank as he picked up the sentence. “- _are_ as a brother to me, but this you're asking of me, this confession, I can not give. Not while you're like this.”

Watson's eyed narrowed. He lent in close, hands on Holmes' restrained arms, and pressed him back against the bed post while he growled out the demand.

“Say it now Sherlock.”

Holmes shook his head again and clenched his hands.

“The man I care for is clearly not present.”

He averted his eyes from Watson's furious gaze before he shut them, not wanting to see the expressions on the man's face when he spoke again. His voice was firm and clear in the room, sounding almost like it'd done a day ago.

“I refuse.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Finger insertion/examination of stitches  
> More fisticuffs/slapping/pushing against walls/hairpulling  
> Uncomfortable bondage  
> Watson stepping down on Holmes' privates for a few seconds..


	15. Day 2: The confession of the innocent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson has a moment of enlightenment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait, this chapter is extra long!
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings.

_He averted his eyes from Watson's furious gaze before he shut them, not wanting to see the expressions on the man's face when he spoke again. His voice was firm and clear, sounding almost like it'd done a day ago._

_“I refuse.”_

His words hung in the room, and Watson abruptly let go as if he'd been burned by them.

Holmes tensed his shoulders, awaiting Watson's, no doubt, displeased reaction. He could hear the man's harsh breathing, the beat of his wildly thumping heart, smell the sweat he'd spotted on Watson's pinched brow before he'd shut his eyes.

He was close, towering over Holmes' unseeing form on the floor and pondering his next move, thinking of ways to further hurt him for his insolence – or perhaps trying to intimidate him into submission again.

Holmes was reluctant to admit it to himself, but it was working. The complete uncertainty of what came next, of what was in store for him, was a horrifying and unknown experience, and a spot he'd seldom been put in before.

The man's actions were without logic, his reactions and moods were unreadable, and Holmes still wasn't completely sure exactly _what_ Watson hoped to get out of it. Of forcing him to comply and lie under the threat of violence – meaningless declarations of love they both knew would only be uttered in fear.

Even Watson as he was now...

 _He_ _can't be_ _that mad._

He _had_ to know _._

The man had recognized his fear, taken advantage of it...

But yet, even as he was performing them, he did not seem to fully understand the extent of his actions.

Unless he had been feigning the hurt Holmes had seen in his eyes before they had turned cold and empty, Watson had seemed to be genuinely shocked at his refusal. The way his eyes had widened at the bitter words, boring their way into him with maddened intensity and desperation, had filled Holmes with mixed feelings of enraged justice and overwhelming pity. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

There was still no counteraction from the man.

Watson was silent as ever, and it, once again, managed to unnerve Holmes even more than the violent outbursts.

What was he to do if Watson simply decided to keep quiet and not acknowledge him before he complied? He was dependent on the man's willingness to keep him alive and, even though doing a piss poor job of it – mildly well. His injuries needed daily attendance, and from a professional at that, without it he'd quickly succumb to infection.

He couldn't feel the newly twisted ankle due to the loss of blood, but If Watson kept him tied to the bedpost as he was now for the whole duration of the night...

_Irreversible damage will be unavoidable._

He'd rather not think about it, the loss of feeling in his thumb or foot, both would impair him greatly. Not to mention the horrid state his back and thighs would be in after staying locked in the same position for hours on end.

Sharp footsteps sounded on the wooden boards, and Holmes held his breath as he awaited the blow in the darkness.

Nothing came. The footsteps moved away.

_He's going to leave me._

He was sure of it now.

He didn't know whether to be relieved of terrified at the prospect of being left alone. In time, he'd figure out some way around the restraints or get help. But the longer it took, the more famished and weakened he'd get, and the possibility of getting out on his own after more than a dozen of hours tied down was minimal.

Watson proceeded to pace around the room, walking back and forth with small, quick steps. He paused his stride for a moment when Holmes involuntarily let out a small sound with his next exhale of air as something in his ankle sent a sharp stab of pain up through his leg. _Damn those blasted stair_ _s._

His throat clenched up, and he couldn't stop thinking back to the foiled attempt at escape. Of how he'd debased himself and crumbled beneath the man's hands the moment they had touched him. Of how utterly foolish – _Idiotic. Out of the window. Screaming like a halfwit._

Completely out of his mind, reduced to begging and crying while Watson – _Watson! –_ it was still incomprehensible to Holmes, threw him against the wall and commanded his silence and obedience.

_Madness. Sheer madness._

He knew the doctor to have quite a temper, had seen it applied against various thugs and lowlifes of London’s streets, but never had his friend turned it on him. When Watson was enraged as this, it would usually be on Holmes' behalf.

Something rustled – papers. Watson was by his working desk, moving things about. Holmes startled and nearly threw his eyes open when something hit the floor with a splintering sound, invading the silence and making the doctor utter a low curse before he returned to pace around.

Holmes kept his own silence. He could hear Watson breathing heavily from above, in what Holmes assumed to be anger; _Or lust, –_ the two seemed to be sharing some sort of connection in his delirious mind.

The footsteps neared his form again and Holmes tensed, hearing his own heartbeat speed up, massively loud in his ears, while Watson's hand buried itself in his hair. He pulled back, resulting in his head banging painfully against the bedpost when the cravat, crawling with his own filth, was pushed to his mouth again.

Watson let go of his hair and let him drop his head for a short second, before a firm hand grasped his jaw and clenched. The nails dug their way into his skin, leaving thin, burning trails in their leave and Holmes was eventually forced to open his mouth when the pressure was increased to a dangerous degree.

“Wait -!”

He didn't know what he wanted to say, and it really didn't matter either, because as soon as he'd uttered the plead, his mouth was filled with the soaked fabric - Watson's palm immediately clamping down on Holmes' face and keeping him from spitting it out. It was quickly replaced by a string of cloth – _or gauze?_ \- that kept the gag lodged at the back of his mouth.

His head was forced backwards and up against the bedpost as Watson wrapped the fabric around it once before tying a knot. Holmes pushed against the intrusion with his tongue and twitched when the nerves in his shoulder protested at being forced up against the hard wood.

“Look at me.”

The command was uttered in a surprisingly calm voice, eerily avoid of the anger the man's actions and touch held.

The tip of Watson's shoe nudged at Holmes' throbbing privates when he didn't comply, and he instantly opened his eyes, staring up at the man with a mixture of fear and burning anger.

Watson had snuffed out the light at some point, and the room was almost pitch black. Holmes could only make out a few features of his face, the wide, observing eyes and the sparse moonlight reflected in the doctor's moustache and hair.

He endured another round of silence from his captor, forcing himself to look back without wavering his gaze.

Watson nodded once, mouth set in a firm line, and turned on his heel.

The door closed, and Holmes was, once again, left in complete darkness, the taste of copper invading his mouth and making him gag. There was no slam of the front door below, so he knew Watson hadn't made his leave yet. There was nothing to do but wait.

He wasn't yet fully sure if the man intended to come back soon or leave him for good for the rest of the night. He could very well be looking for a tool to help aid whatever punishment he had in mind.

Holmes' mind turned to every single household item their living space held, now being transformed into torture devices before his inner eye. Their potential danger in the hands of a man bent on inflicting long lasting hurt – the damage every one of them could inflict on his body.

He thought of the medical supplies and surgical knives Watson had at his disposition.

The man was a certified doctor. He of all, knew just how much a man's body could endure before his will and pride would cave.

He thought of the hot poker, Watson's gentle smile when he'd tighten his grip around it and rearrange the burning coal in the fireplace while Holmes sat on the rug and sorted through his writings. The smell of burning flesh, Watson's wide eyes glaring down at him while the scorching metal made his skin sear and bubble up.

He imagined the aftermath, how Watson would pet him and whisper soothing words to his miserable form while he cleansed and bandaged the burns, caring for him while he silently cried and stared straight at the wall like a traumatized child.

Something crashed below, and Holmes perked his ears at the sound. _Vase? A bottle perhaps._ Judging from the sound of it, Watson was now taking his frustration out on the dead furniture of the dinning room. He heard more evidence of the man's rampage, something heavy being thrown against a wall and landing on the floor with a shattering sound, the dog's barking and Watson's enraged voice now and then.

After a while, he grew tired of trying to figure out what the man was stirring up for him.

He began to drift, blinking sluggishly at his rug, spotted with soot and various dried liquids from failed experiments, as the puzzling sounds from below continued.

He stared some more at the morocco case as it taunted him from its spot on the desk.

Half an hour went with softly crying again and pulling in vain on the restraints; another was spent repeating various mantras in his own head as he tried to force his body to calm. It must have worked, because he managed to slow his breath enough to finally allow him to doze off, and stars that hadn't been present in the sky few moments ago were blinking at him through the window once he regained consciousness again.

Holmes bit down into the gag and unsuccessfully tried moving his head to the side to lessen the strain in his neck. His body was aching in ways he hadn't even deemed possible before last night. It was still pitch-black and the flat was silent.

Watson had yet to return.

Perhaps he'd left him alone after all.

Judging by the absence of light, it was still several hours till morning and people being present in the streets. Despite having slept for an unspecified amount of time, his mind was exhausted and in serious need of a proper night's rest. The danger of permanently loosing the use of one of his tied-down limbs was becoming more and more urgent, and he found himself shamefully wishing for the man's return.

If Watson had truly left him...

What if no one came to look for him before several days had passed?

The thought of anyone finding him as he would be then, naked and beaten, surrounded by a puddle of his own waste and in a state of mind he couldn’t imagine to be anything but delirious and maddened by the loss of liquid and proper sleep, was horrifying.

Lestrade, - _that imbecile!_ \- had failed to show up.

Had he not found it unusual the slightest bit for Holmes to not uphold his deal with the yard?

Apparently not it would seem.

And then again, why would he be worried? The inspector had most likely been relieved to find him absent. It was not as if the man _enjoyed_ his company and snide comments during investigations. He knew he was only included in the yard's work out of need, not want; and was it really that uncommon for him to disappear without giving word for days of time?

It, unfortunately, was not.

Usually Watson would be the one to inform the ones in need of it when Holmes was out of town or unable to pick up a certain case. He never bothered himself to address the inspector with such trivial matters if he could avoid it. Watson was better at it, at talking with them, _people_ , when Holmes was in a mood that would not lend itself to patience or being forced to explain himself more than once.

His friend was good with people in a way Holmes had never been. He had a calming effect on most, whereas Holmes usually instilled subtle annoyance or outright anger.

They liked him. enjoyed his company, fell in _love_ with the kind of man John Watson had always been in his mind. The kind of man who'd step in front of a bullet to prevent the injury of a stranger on the streets, who'd cry bitter tears at the expanse of a young victim's death when Holmes would simply carry on to the next case. A healer and protector. War veteran. Loyal companion. And what mattered most to him, if not the _only_ thing that truly mattered, _friend_.

He'd always been impressed with Watson's patience with him, thankful even, though he rarely put it out for the man to hear. Watson had, to Holmes, ever been the striking image of a near perfect being if there ever was one, capable of no true evil or wrongdoing.

Something pulled in his chest and he closed his eyes tightly again, digging his nails into the flesh of his trembling palm and welcoming the following pain that forced his mind elsewhere.

He did _not_ want to dwell on the bitter feelings that invaded him as a result of revisiting his previous thoughts about the doctor.

The Watson he was dealing with now was not that same man, and it was a disgrace to see him as such. His friend seemed to be a complete stranger in several aspects, willing to put him to harm at the whim of a single word. But still, he had seen hurt in those eyes.

What he had said had stirred _something_ in the man, and though Holmes feared the consequences, he was still glad he'd not gone back on his word and begun pleading again.

The only thing he had left to oppose Watson with, as of now, was the truth.

He spent the passing twenty minutes or so silently preparing for what he would say once he was allowed the use of his voice again. He would have to keep it steady, void of emotion, clear enough for Watson to understand the gravity of the words.

_If he's ever coming back..._

Had the man, in his rage, truly left him to rot?

_He wouldn’t._

There were plenty of things he'd never thought Watson capable of, such as openly taking pleasure in his fear – from inflicting it.

_But he did. God, he did._

His inner voice was abruptly cut off when he heard a thump sound on the stairs followed by a loud curse. Holmes opened his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the tightness in his chest lessen. He wasn't alone after all. Watson had probably never even left the flat.

The man was slowly ascending the stairs – with unusual heavy steps, Holmes noted. There was a long pause when the floorboards on the other side of the door creaked. Watson's form stumbled after wringing it open, holding on to the handle for support before staggering over to Holmes' spot on the floor. The man had neglected to bring a light, and Holmes couldn’t get a proper look at his face

He went rigid when Watson came closer.

The sharp smell of strong liquor hit his nose like a wall and made his blood run cold.

Watson had spent the passing hours drinking, and a decent amount at that judging from the state of him.

Holmes' hands had begun lightly sweating again, and everything he'd prepared to say, all the courage he'd worked up, was wiped away the instance he realized the man wasn't sober.

Watson was prone to violence when drunk, much quicker to make mistakes - as any mortal man Holmes supposed, but if he was to talk reason with Watson while he was intoxicated, things boded unwell for the outcome in Holmes' case.

A madman under the influence was not something to be taken lightly, he'd already paid for such an offense several years ago with a faded scar in his left thigh to add to the memory.

Watson bent forwards, and Holmes could now make out the shine to his eyes, the red colour of his cheeks. He stared down at Holmes for some time, panting harshly and shifting his weight from leg to leg in a clear sign of uncertainty.

One of the doctor's hands came forwards to stroke his cheek, and Holmes unintentionally jerked back. Watson's eyes hardened at once, and the hand took hold of his hair instead, wrenching Holmes' head up while another moved forwards to caress his face, running a thumb over the gag and rubbing it up against his sore lips.

There was no doubt to be had about the look on Watson's face, he was brimming with rage. It was made only more notable when he opened his mouth and spoke, voice slightly slurred and pausing at strange moments before picking up again.

“I know... Why you do this – Why you refuse me so.”

He grit his teeth and fastened his grip on Holmes' hair before continuing.

“This is a _game_ to you, is it not Holmes?”

Holmes' mouth was still stuffed with the cravat, and he supposed the man didn't really want an answer, but he shook his head despite it.

Watson kept talking, not even acknowledging the dismissive movement.

“Do you enjoy it? Seeing me like this? Is this what you want?”

The last question was spoken in a demanding and slightly desperate tone. Holmes averted his eyes for a short second and was instantly rewarded with a backhand.

“Did I not tell you to look me in the eye when I'm speaking to you?”

Watson's face was inches from his own, alcohol lazed breath washing over Holmes and making him screw up his nose.

He nodded silently in response, and Watson's hand went behind his head to untie the fabric keeping the cravat in place. As soon as the sodden cloth was gone, the man bombarded him with more questions.

“What do you have to say? Explain yourself! Why are you acting like this!?”

He stared at Watson in bewilderment.

“Do you truly not know? ”

He didn't care that it came out frightened. Now he would at least have his musings about the man's backwards reasoning confirmed.

Watson shook his head and kept silent, waiting for Holmes to explain further.

He licked his lips nervously, but managed to keep his voice calm when he asked the question that had been pressing on ever since Watson had expressed surprise at his refusal.

“Why did you tie me down?”

The man furrowed his brow.

“You were hysterical, I had to keep you from adding further damage to yourself, and this has nothi-”

“Why did you tie me down before that pray tell?”

Watson narrowed his eyes at being cut off, and his left hand twitched, but he didn’t answer. Holmes took it as an invitation to keep talking.

“Why did you restrain me before you made your advances if you were so sure of my consent? If you knew I would comply, why would you need to tie me down then?”

The man's mouth stayed firmly shut, both hands shaking by his sides. Holmes continued, not surprised to hear the sharp edge of anger that had crept into his voice.

“One must assume you weren't so certain of my enthusiasm after all.”

Watson shook his head, and it only managed to anger him further.

“One might come to the conclusion that you _knew_ my reaction would not be one of approval, and thus you decided to restrain me and take what you wanted.“

He drew in a harsh breath of air.

“And now you question me as to why I am not-”

He took a small pause to look at Watson again, seeing the open denial in his eyes and the way his mouth tightened at the words.

“-Now you ask me... why I am not grateful, grateful for being tied down like a criminal and threatened with violence and degrading acts of sodomy.”

Watson made a small jerk as if the last sentence had physically hurt him, and Holmes took it as a sign that at least some of what he was saying was making it through to the man.

He couldn’t stop now.

“Tell me Watson, are those the actions of a sane individual?”

No words in reply, just Watson's confused face and staring eyes. It filled him with a rush of fury, seeing the man so unwilling to accept the truth.

“Because to me, _dear friend_ , “- the words were bitter on his tongue - “that seems like the doings of a deluded madman. Is it not right to assume that you planned this beforehand, and therefore had plenty of time to come to me in another manner, yet you sought out to restrain me like this?”

He flailed his hands before asking again.

“Is that not the workings of a vile criminal? ”

Watson simply shook his head again, and Holmes pressed on, not willing to drop the question.

“Is it not Watson? ”

The man moved back a bit and suddenly averted his gaze, turning his face to the side to avoid eye contact, the very contact he had just demanded be held by Holmes.

“Why will you not look at me? Is it too much? To see the defilement and hurt you have brought upon me with clear intent in this very room?”

Another mindless shake of the head and a low mumble that made his blood boil. _How dare he?!_

It was too much. He didn't mean to, but he shouted out the demand, desperate for the man to listen to him.

“DAMN YOU! LOOK AT ME!”

Watson's head turned around with a snap, and Holmes instantly regretted the outburst. There was a fire in those eyes, so consuming and intense, full of fury and the promise of hurt. _I went to_ _o_ _far._

He didn’t have time to react before the man's closed fist connected with his right eye and smacked the back of his head into the post. There was nothing but white for a short moment when he blinked, and he yelled out in panic.

“Stop!”

The doctor was shaking all over, teeth bared just a little, barely able to get the words out.

“You will keep your tone when you speak to me. Do you understand!”

Holmes nodded quickly. The area around his eye was already in the process of swelling up, making him unable to keep it fully opened. Watson's hand was still a few inches from his face.

An old-fashioned beating it would be then. _That_ he could take.

Holmes closed his still functioning eyelid and waited for the next blow to fall.

He could hear and smell the man's heavy breath.

It wasn't another fist that met with his face, but trembling fingers, and he held his breath in surprise as they stroked his face yet again before squeezing his jaw.

“You say such cruel things, words meant to hurt me, I know.”

The grip was painful, but Holmes swallowed the whine down, and Watson continued.

“You've always been an expert in twisting and manipulating the answers asked of you, but it won't work on me. Do you really think me so daft?”

Watson shook his head, as if in response to his own question, and moved his mouth closer to Holmes' ear.

“I know you Sherlock, and I know what you crave. You may not be willing to realize it yourself, damn you and your abnormal humanity, but I will not let it be ignored and swept under the rug.”

His hand moved back from Holmes' face, and his short-lived rush of anger was immediately replaced by an all-consuming terror when it returned with Watson's handgun. The metal was glinting at him in the dark and he widened his eyes, completely shocked by the sight of it, shocked by the very idea that Watson would ever turn the weapon on him.

Had he really pushed the man so far?

Would Watson actually kill him? _Don't_ _panic._

“Admit it, admit you love me.”

Watson's voice was slightly shaking, but not as badly as the hand brandishing the gun. He tightened his grip when Holmes failed to answer and moved closer.

“I won't be mad, just admit it. Stop lying to yourself, and me. “

Huge, desperate eyes blinked at him, and Holmes stared back. _Stay calm._

So far, any loud or overly emotional response from him had triggered the man further and only added to the punishments. He couldn't afford to let his fear affect his words. He had to appease Watson _now_.

“Are you going to shoot me Watson?”

A short pause while he studied the man's face, mindful of any sudden changes in his maddened expression.

“Is that what it will take for you to realize your mistake?”

Watson's eyes began flickering around the room, widening to an almost comical size.

“I would never. To think – what do you think I am?!”

He sounded offended, moving his head back a few inches to stare at Holmes with a baffled face.

“Not in your right mind I'm afraid. Lower the gun old boy, there's no one to shoot it at here.”

His voice sounded wrong, like a stranger's, but it got a reaction. Watson's hand twitched before he closed his eyes and lowed the weapon to rest it on Holmes' knee.

_It worked._

The doctor's free hand was caressing his thigh. He'd moved his gaze down from Holmes face to focus on his fingers as they softly traced the sensitive skin, still shaking and breathing heavily.

Holmes quickly went over the words in his head. He had to speak now, while Watson was willing to listen, before he snapped back into oblivion. The man had always been the one to calm him down, not the other way around.

“Watson, You must listen to me. See the evidence around you, look at my face. I –”

At that, Watson obeyed and looked up.

There were tears in his eyes when they met Holmes', swallowing him up like deep pools of nothing, completely round and bright. The smell of alcohol was everywhere, and it suddenly dawned on Holmes, – _Stupid. Stupid. Stupi_ _d!_ –, that the bullets in the gun might not be intended for him at all.

“Holmes. _”_

It was said with much effort, as if the words physically hurt to get out.

“If this you're telling me, that I am truly mad.”

Watson's breath hitched, and he took a moment to compose himself before continuing, sounding on the verge of ascending into hysterics. “If this is the truth, if I have forced myself upon you with no cause, then tell me, _why should I live?_ ”

_Oh God._

The hand on Holmes' thigh tightened and the tears began sliding down the man's reddened face as he spoke.

“Tell me that. If you loathe me, what reason do I have to live for then?”

He felt completely numb, no clue of what to say to _that_ confession. Watson was openly begging him to confirm his own earlier spoken words, that he had indeed greatly abused him, was still hurting him without cause or reason.

For one, horrible second he actually considered answering truthfully, and instantly shoved the thought away, ashamed that it'd even been there.

He'd promised himself there would be no more lies to please the man, but he couldn't just sit and watch him _kill himself_. No matter what he was right now, something that was definitely _not_ his Watson, he still shared the body and face of the man who'd stayed with Holmes, comforted and humoured him for years out of his good heart and ever present loyalty.

The fact that he'd listened and was reacting with such anguish over the prospect of having violated Holmes, showed him to not be completely lost. He was still somehow the Watson Holmes knew, the man who would die before hurting him – at least in the moment. If Watson decided to shoot himself out of guilt due to Holmes' words, he might as well have gone all the way and ended him beforehand too.

The hand with the weapon moved away from Holmes' knee and the finger near the trigger wavered dangerously. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing useful came out. He knew what he had to do, what to say to make the man stop, but he still hesitated.

When Watson's eyes hardened, mouth drawn in a tight line as he lifted the gun to his head, all reason left Holmes and the words spilled out.

“I lied!”

The man halted the movement and shot his eyes up.

“I'm... I – You were right.” He stammered it out, but the words had an instant effect. Watson slowly lowered his hand and nodded, waiting for Holmes to further explain - _confess_.

“I do. I _do_ love you. I was-”

He didn't get to say more before Watson's mouth was on him, gun forgotten by their legs.

The man's hands were everywhere, in his hair, trickling over his shoulder and palming at his chest. He jerked and made a small whimper when a hot palm moved down to his crotch.

“Show me.”

Holmes blinked in confusion. How was he supposed to prove something like that? .

He had said it. Told Watson what he'd wanted to hear, what more could he possibly say?

The tears had stopped, and the miserable expression had been traded for one of determination – quickly turning suspicious when Holmes failed to return the kiss.

“If you love me, as you claim, if it were all lies, show me. Show me and it will be forgiven. ”

He hadn't the faintest idea' what was expected of him.

“I don't-”

Watson stood up and began working on the buttons of the front of his trousers, getting his fly open without releasing himself completely.

Holmes stared up at him helplessly. The man had been ready to kill himself mere seconds ago, and now he was already acting as if it hadn't happened. The front of his undergarments were damp and a few inches from Holmes' face.

“I've dreamt of it. You willingly giving me the pleasure I’ve sought out to enlighten you with. Your lips and mouth on me.”

The clothed member was pushed to his cheek, warmth reaching his skin through the thin fabric.

“Do this for me, as a token of your love.”

Watson's gaze was slightly glazed over, but there was still a violent streak hidden beneath his tear stricken eyes.

Holmes only debated with himself for a few seconds. Watson was drunk and dangerously unstable, more so than he'd been while sober. Openly defying him, as Holmes had done just few hours ago, had proven to be a disastrous strategy.

He had to do this. There was no other way. He did not want the blood of his friend, even as he was now, on his hands.

Until the alcohol was out of his system and Holmes had figured out a better way to talk to him, he was forced to indulge Watson in his fantasies – to save the doctor, and himself to some extent, from his delirium.

“Kiss me.”

 _What?_ He couldn't reach the man's face, and Watson made no indication of moving. Was it a test of some sort?

Watson sighed and took a hold of his erection through his underwear, motioning with his other hand to make his intentions clear, as if he was speaking to a dimwitted child.

“Show me Holmes. Put your mouth on me.”

The man's groin was dominating his vision. He could still remember the disgusting taste of semen coating his mouth, and the memory made his insides curl, but he had no choice. He moved forwards and pressed his lips to the wet spot, feeling the hardness that laid beneath while Watson made a muttered approval.

After a few seconds, he moved back, not quite sure where to look.

Watson's hand moved to the top of Holmes' head and begun petting it lightly as he urged him on.

“Use your tongue.”

He did as he was told, sticking his tongue out, awkwardly, and spending a short moment just staring at the straining fabric in front of him, before he pressed it to the underside of the man's sparsely covered arousal.

Watson moaned and ran his fingers through his hair as he shifted himself closer.

Holmes ignored the disgust that surged through him at the action and moved upwards, leaving a trail of saliva on the white fabric as he trailed the hot length with his mouth. A tremble went through the man's body, and the fingers in Holmes' hair tightened when he kissed the tip, leaving his tongue flat against the pulsing warmth while Watson held him there with a possessive hand on the back of his head.

It was tilted back, and the man looked down at him with half lidded eyes.

“Do you love me?”

Holmes eyed the gun for a moment, cold where the metal grazed his knee on the floor, but nodded silently, keeping his eye down-turned when Watson began pulling himself out. The thought of what he had agreed to do was positively vile, pleasuring another man in such a way; like the prostitutes he would catch a glimpse of now and then, kneeling before their customers in dark alleys, eager to please any man, or woman, for the right price. _A cheap whore._

The cock was glistening and standing to full attention in the doctor's hand. The fingers in his hair pulled and his head was angled upwards, putting uncomfortable pressure on his neck. He was almost about to protest, but only managed a small gasp before the length was shoved into his open mouth.

It was too quick, too big and sudden, and he instantly gagged. He could hardly breathe, let alone do anything useful with his tongue other than push weakly against the flesh when it grazed his uvular and made his throat contort.

Watson seemed completely oblivious. He pushed further, ignoring the pitiful sounds and cramming himself down Holmes' throat without a care. As if he hadn't just been horrified at the thought of needlessly hurting him.

The taste was unpleasant, salty and _everywhere._

Holmes tried pulling back, pleading the man with his eyes to let him breathe, but Watson held him fast and kept his head in place as he began thrusting.

He was unable to push away or protest, couldn't even draw in proper air around the member lodged in his throat. He was choking he realized, panic closing in on him and darkening is vision. Watson wasn't even looking at him. The man's eyes were tightly closed, not paying attention to his face, which Holmes was positive wasn't a natural colour anymore.

A whoozing sound had started ringing in his head, and he was close to blacking out when Watson finally stilled, having only lasted for a few minutes.

Warm, thick liquid filled his throat and mouth, and the member was moved back, resting on his tongue as he coughed and drooled.

“Swallow.”

There were tears stinging in his eyes anew. Why had the act turned so violent of a sudden? What could the man possibly gain from being so cruel? He had obeyed, kept his mouth open and let Watson do as he'd pleased. Why was it not enough?

When he didn't immediately comply, two fingers moved down and pinched his nose shut. He did as demanded then, gulping down the mixture of saliva and come in his mouth and doing everything he could to keep his nausea down. It wasn't as if he had anything to throw up, but dry heaving and coughing mucus because he couldn't do the task was just as bad.

Watson held himself there, watching Holmes as he fought to swallow.

Surely no one could expect anyone else to enjoy doing this?

He wasn't completely sure.

Such things were only spoken openly of in bars in the companionship of foul men. Holmes would often overhear parts of conversations, so-called gentlemen boasting about their skills in bed, how they would make their wives hunger for the taste of their release. It had sounded filthy and unpleasant to him, but perhaps that was simply because it really was. Perhaps this was what women endured every night with their husbands.

And they were seemingly happy to do it.

He got it all down with much effort, breathing heavily around the tip of Watson's length and feeling as if he'd swallowed gallons of the liquid. Finally, the cock was pulled out as the man stood back.

He did not even look happy or impressed, simply tired. His voice was thoughtful, but carrying none of the emotion it had few minutes before, when he had seemed to genuinely care for Holmes' well being.

“I see kissing is not the only form of intimacy you have trouble with. I think -.

A short pause while he scratched his chin absently, moving his eyes over Holmes' form beneath him.

“Yes. After a good nights sleep, you'll do better. I'll show you, tomorrow.” He made a small nod and smiled. “All will be forgiven then.”

_Tomorrow._

Holmes most of all wanted to cry at that. It was now completely clear to him that Watson had no intentions of killing him. He supposed he should be relieved somewhat, but the man's sudden threats of suicide had been equally frightening.

Watson hadn't been waiting for an answer, walking to the end of the bed to grab a small towel. He returned to Holmes' kneeling form and wiped his face gently, before he began on the task of freeing his legs from their bonds.

He trailed a hand over the twisted ankle and clicked his tongue at the sight. Holmes couldn't see, but he was certain it was swollen and bruised.

“From your adventure down the stairs I assume. That can't be comfortable.”

If he had been in any other situation, Holmes would have scoffed at the obvious observation, instead he whimpered and clenched his teeth while Watson began unbuckling the belt keeping his wrists to the post. The handkerchief securing them to each other was still in place once the belt was gone, and Holmes presumed to kneel as Watson stood back.

His limbs had been locked in place for far too long and there was no way he would be able to stand up without assistance. It seemed to dawn on the man when Holmes resorted to looking up at him with a pained face, and Watson bent down besides him on the floor, grabbed him around the waist, and lifted.

The pain in his lower legs was excruciating, and he moaned out loud in the room when blood began to flow to the area, making it seem as if his very flesh was on fire from the inside.

“It'll be over in just a second. You just lean on me till we get to the bed. Do you need the toilet?”

Holmes shook his head.

“Very well then.”

He sounded so composed, as if the past hour hadn't taken place at all, giving Holmes a slight smile as he motioned for him to follow. There was only a few steps to the desired destination, but every one of them felt like walking on glass. His legs were uncontrollably shaking once Watson sat him down, and he was fighting to keep more pained sounds from escaping, hopeful that he would finally be allowed to rest if he did nothing more to set off the man – which meant staying as quiet and subdued as possible.

“You stay here and I'll get the clean sheets and some water. Would you still like that shot of morphine?”

Yes. _God yes,_ he wanted it, needed it more than ever.

“Please.”

It was a hoarse whisper, but still audible, and Watson nodded and retreated out of the room.

He was alone, finally freed from the post; the man had even left his legs unrestrained, but he couldn't stand up on his own, let alone move to the other end of the room without falling, so he stayed, breathing deeply in and out and wriggling his toes to further the process of getting blood to the area.

Watson returned quickly, and Holmes was made to stand and lean up against the bedpost for support while the bed was made. A glass of water was pushed to his lips once Watson was done, and he quickly finished it, mumbling out the 'thank you' he knew the man expected, which earned him a big smile in return.

He was gently made to lie down on the bed again, covered by the light bedding that had been eased over his shivering body and staring at the ceiling while Watson prepared the promised shot.

Holmes welcomed the small prick of the needle as it punctured the inner side of his arm, so grateful for it that he didn't flinch when Watson kissed his cheek after applying the drug. It would only take ten minutes for the effects to work, and by then he'd finally be able to rest undisturbed.

Watson began undressing, and soon after his warm body pressed up against Holmes' on the bed, one hand lazily stroking his hip while a soft kiss was placed to his shoulder.

“Could you say it again? I'd like to hear it before I succumb to sleep myself.”

At first he wasn't sure of what the man referred to, but it quickly dawned on him when Watson nibbled at the bite mark, causing the return of the unbidden lump in his throat. It was ridiculous. It was just a word, but it still took quite a lot out of him to say it.

“I love you.”

He was rewarded with a kiss to his mouth before Watson laid down beside him again with a content sigh.

“Thank you.”

They laid in silence then, Watson dancing his fingers lightly over his skin as he felt the effects of the morphine slowly settling. A pleasant numbness had began spreading from the tip of his fingers to the rest of his body, warming him up and chasing away the pain and fear. He knew he would have to deal with the man's delirium again once he woke, but it didn't seem as urgent as it had few moments ago. It didn't matter.

He was floating, despite the heaviness in his limbs and body, and Watson's touch left a pleasant sensation on his skin. He let his mind switch off, simply savouring the feel of being comfortable while the man covered his upper neck and jaw in silent kisses.

Holmes was half asleep when Watson lowered his hand and placed it between his legs. He hadn't expected it, actually believing for a moment that he would be left to sleep without further violations. Nothing came out when he opened his mouth to object, except for a few choked whines when Watson began fondling him.

He twitched, and found that he couldn't move at all.

A hand placed itself over his chest and pulled him closer against Watson's in a tight embrace while the other moved over his sensitive flesh. Every stroke seemed to last for hours, as if he was suspended in time and forced to endure the unwanted touch to the end of his days.

Warmth pooled in his stomach, and he put all his strength into moving, but only managed to flop his left arm uselessly against Watson's side.

There was nothing but the hands, his body was not existent in the places they didn't touch.

He could faintly hear Watson's voice, inside his head, all around him, but he couldn't make out the words or his face.

Everything had turned fuzzy, even the touch, blurring together until there was nothing.

The ten minutes were up, and the full effects of the drug crashed over him, pulling Holmes away from the room and into a deep sleep while Watson caressed him and whispered words of devotion to his immobilized form.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> Threats of suicide.  
> Alcohol.  
> A forceful blowjob.  
> Watson feeling Holmes up while he is under the influence of morphine.  
> A few slaps and a closefisted blow to the face.
> 
> Ahhh, I was hoping to post this before 2014, but I just kept adding more and more to the chapter :O  
> I have no medical knowledge, but I've been subjected to morphine before, and the experience was... strange. 
> 
> Next chapter will be from Watson's POV, but I'm currently working on finishing up the H/C part to my other fic(aka shameless gangrape porn ft. Tony Stark), so I won't be working properly on it before that's done.


	16. Day 3: The trials of teaching - fanart edition.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson has a strange idea of what makes a good morning exercise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzza! I'm late, but I bring porn and deluded Watsons. Nothing but. And this chapter also features two wonderful, erotic illustrations sketched by my good, kind-of-beta-reader-but-not-really, friend Tera. I'll use up the end notes to gush over them, cause they're beautiful ;-;
> 
> Also, remember how I mentioned somnophilia wasn't really my thing some chapters back? That kind of went away.
> 
> Please check the end notes for specific warnings to avoid triggers.  
> Additional warning: **This chapter features nsfw artwork directly inspired by this fic, go hide in a cave while reading or something. ~~If you weren't already.~~**

The dim morning light slowly spread on the sky, warm streaks of red and purple that coloured the clouds with the glow of the oncoming sun.

Watson woke with an ear-splitting headache – a horrible taste in his mouth from the excessive amounts of alcohol he'd consumed the previous night.

He winced and inwardly cursed himself for drinking so recklessly. It had not only punished him with a painful hangover, but his dreams and the majority of his sleep had likewise been addled and unpleasant.

_'Help me.'_

His eyes shut open and he fumbled with his hands, taking a deep breath of relief when he felt Holmes' warm body beside him on the bed.

There had been shouting – Holmes yelling at him through a deep fog in the midst of his sleep, calling out Watson's name in the darkness from a spot he could never seem to find.

_'Watson-!'_

The detective had sounded perplexed, in urgent need of assistance, but his voice had shifted all to sudden and often for anyone to pinpoint its position.

_'Watson! Watson, help me!'_

The shouting had been far away for one moment, then a few meters besides him, getting more and more desperate with each passing second.

_'Good God man! Get over here and help me!'_

Holmes _needed_ him.

And Watson had tried, he _had._ But his limbs had been heavy – the fog all too thick – his own mouth incapable of speech.

And he had been weak, so weak. And what kind of a doctor – _man_ _–_ was he? Running around in the darkness like a fool, incapable of helping anyone, not even _Holmes_.

_'Watson!'_

The detective's panicked voice had given away at some point, replaced by long blood-curdling screams that created horrifying pictures before Watson's inner eye and seemed to move towards him from several directions at once.

And still, as Holmes had kept screaming for him, and Watson had stumbled through the fog, getting more and more frantic in his search, he had not even been able to catch a glimpse of the detective, let alone safe him from whatever monsters the man had come upon.

The fear that had taken hold of him in that moment, when all he could hear was Holmes' agonized screams for help, had not ceased once Watson had woken, and it was _still_ somewhat with him.

Even now, though he'd spent several minutes since waking observing Holmes' sleeping form in silence, lingering a hand over the man's chest to feel each inhale of breath and the steady beat of his heart. Even as he moved his fingers through the newly washed hair and felt the marks of his own teeth on the perfect, _so perfect_ , pale skin of Holmes' neck. Not even then did he feel safe.

The slight anxiousness only got worse at the sight of Holmes' bruised eye once Watson actively fixed his gaze on it, dark and swollen from where his fist had connected with the soft flesh.

Holmes had yelled then too.

_'Stop!-'_

He hadn't meant it, to hit the man with such force.

_It was the drink._

Had to have been.

Because never, never in this world would he lay hurt upon the face before him without a damned good reason.

It was true, it _did_ pain him to strike Holmes. But if the man gave him a reason to... If Holmes refused to listen...

It was his duty.

And yes... Watson had _had_ a reason, hadn't he? Apart from the alcohol addling his mind.

Holmes had been acting up again, staring at him with _those_ eyes and using the voice he would normally only use for the likes he thought beneath him. Not for Watson, not for his friend – _l_ _over._

He had failed to listen, chosen to ignore Watson's words, and then cursed at him.

Holmes had _damned_ him, spoken down to him, _refused_ him. And for one moment, the man's angered face had changed into something Watson had concluded he most definitely did _not_ like – dark and accusing, spiteful.

So he had hit it, in a moment of desperation, smacked his fist into the face of the not-Holmes that had appeared for a brief second.

And it had _worked_. Hadn’t it?

Yes. Yes it had.

There had been no more shouting after that, no ugly words coming from Holmes' mouth. He had listened. He had understood, finally come clean and admitted it, that he _did_ want it, wanted Watson.

_It worked._

And Holmes had said _'Yes',_ and _'I love you.'_ and he hadn't lied _then_. Why would he?

The doctor's assumptions had been correct.

Holmes had been embarrassed and overwhelmed by the new and unknown emotions, by his own _desire_. So scared by his own body and its responses, that he'd rather make up lies and bizarre explanations for it – _this_ _–_ than just letting it be what it was.

_Love._

There was nothing else Watson felt for the man at the moment.

He felt foolish for letting himself get so worked up over a mere dream.

What was there to fear?

Holmes wasn't screaming, or calling his name in vain. Holmes was right there, warm beneath his hands, full of life and brilliance – and love. He had said it, he _had_ \- love for _him_.

For Watson alone.

There was no doubt in his mind now, that his friend had never been touched, or touched anyone himself, in a sexual manner prior to the night Watson made his advances.

Holmes' attempt at fellatio had been half-hearted and pitiful, a messy affair to be honest, but forgiveable considering his utter lack of experience.

He had simply never been taught or shown how to do it properly, had only felt the pleasure of a mouth on his sensitive flesh once.

And Holmes hadn't been very focused then, had still been fighting his own urges and the restraints, and the time hadn't been for gentle learning, but discipline.

Watson felt his member harden at the memory of the sounds the man had made on the bed, of how he'd pushed himself into the mattress and moaned with want – the glistening member standing to full attention in Watson's hand, the sweet taste of pre-come on his tongue.

Even last night, under the effects of morphine, Holmes had moaned and shaken beneath his hands as Watson caressed him.

It had been heavenly, listening to the small sounds and sharp exhales of air that followed the rhythm of each stroke.

Holmes' body had responded so well, a divine picture of beauty beneath him. As Watson had always imagined him to be.

There were other memories of the previous night though, threatening to push their way into Watson's mind as he observed Holmes' bruised face – the desperate tone of his own voice, _'-forced myself upon you without cause-'_ the gun in his trembling hand, Holmes' frightened eyes when he'd believed Watson would...

That he would...-

_'Are you going to shoot me Watson?'_

He pushed the thoughts away.

_It's over. He said yes. He admitted it._

There was nothing to be gained from dwelling on things and conversations he couldn't properly recall either way.

Holmes was quiet now, still in a deep sleep, and Watson couldn't bear to wake him yet, but he needed...

He could look. _Touch._ Holmes had said so. Holmes... _wanted_ him to.

He moved the covers aside with a careful hand, unveiling the detective's lower body and soft cock nestled between his inner thighs, the angry, red lines running across his upper thighs and buttocks.

 

* * *

                

* * *

 

Now, with Holmes ready, ready to accept their relationship, as it had always been, there was nothing to stop Watson from going through with his promise – the promise of enlightenment and proper teaching.

Yes. Now was the time for another lesson, not in pain, but _pleasure._

He moved his hand down to hold the man's limp member, still a little red from Holmes' frantic rubbing against the furniture.

Of course Holmes hadn’t known what to do the first time, _of course_ he had been scared. It was so rare for the man to be presented with something he had no clue about, and reacting with fear, unreasonable behaviour and denial even, was perfectly normal.

But that fear of the unknown would soon be over, once he had been properly guided.

 _That_ had been Watson's mistake, assuming that Holmes, brilliant as he was, would immediately be able to follow his lead.

It hadn't been so, and Holmes obviously needed more experience before growing completely comfortable with the act of pleasuring another man.

It would soon come naturally to him. Watson was still assured of that, even if there had been a few bad setbacks in the man's behaviour.

He gazed down at Holmes' face.

The detective was still deeply unconscious, having slept for almost ten hours in a row, but Watson ascribed it more so to the man's lack of sufficient sleep than the morphine. The dose had been small, and Holmes' body wasn't unaccustomed to the drug's effects.

He had not been happy about drugging him, but Holmes' pained expression had been genuine, and Watson _did_ still feel regret over his, admittedly too hasty, preparations and the hurt it had caused.

Once the stitches were ready for removal he would have to be careful, and for now, the sore area had to be tended to at least twice a day.

_Better do it before he wakes._

Holmes would be more comfortable then.

_Better tie him down first. He won't be able to keep his focus if he wakes otherwise._

Watson nodded. Just his legs. The man's arms were already secure enough.

Holmes remained deadly limp as Watson gently spread his legs and bundled up a portion of the covers, placing them beneath the man's lower back and raising his bottom by a few inches, enough to prominently display his privates and reddened entrance.

He secured Holmes' ankles to each side of the mattress by the foot-board with two fresh strings of rope, making sure they held without being too tight, before stepping back and taking a pause to think.

He wanted to hear the sounds Holmes would make, but he couldn't fully trust the man not to yell or alert the neighbours. Holmes was still, no doubt, cautious, and who knew if he was to have a fall-back and regress into denial once more?

_Better gag him._

He nodded again, it was the only solution to the noise problem, for the time being.

On the way to the dressing closet, in pursuit of a clean piece of fabric to stuff the man's mouth with, another brilliant thought came to him.

If he wanted Holmes to focus, truly keep his focus on Watson's actions and voice, was it not then also for the best to make sure he received as little visual input as possible?

_Yes._

Obviously.

His desire to see Holmes' eyes, glazed over with pleasure and want, to hear the sounds the detective would make once he woke, was pushed away in favour of creating the best possible environment for Holmes to concentrate in.

The detective made a small sigh when Watson lifted his head to tie the dark piece of soft fabric he'd found in his closet – he was fairly sure he recognized it as one of his own handkerchiefs – around the man's closed eyes.

He bent down, trailing Holmes' parted lips with his own in lieu of a kiss, before stuffing his mouth with a long, red silken scarf he couldn't imagine the man would ever wear himself if not for the purpose of some ridiculous disguise.

Holmes was breathing silently through his nose once Watson stepped back, not affected by having been moved around at all, and Watson nodded in satisfaction.

The examination and tending of the stitches had clearly distressed Holmes, and letting him sleep through it, Watson agreed with himself for the second time that morning, was highly preferable. _Perfect_ to be exact.

That was the word that kept repeating in his head as he slicked his fingers with the cleansing cream and positioned himself between Holmes' spread legs, lifting the man's left thigh from the mattress to gain better access.

He took his time gently applying the lubricant around Holmes' sore opening before testing it with his index finger. Slowly, carefully watching the man's sleeping face for any traces of pain.

It went in without much resistance. Holmes was completely relaxed, accepting the intrusion without movement as Watson smeared the healing skin around the stitches with the soothing cream.

He would have to keep Holmes moderately stretched – open enough for his fingers to do their task without damage, but he was forced to set back his plans of pushing anything else, or bigger, near the man's entrance for the time being.

The risk of the skin breaking around the stitches was too great. He would have to wait till they were out.

_How many days?_

The redness of Holmes' skin around the area was still prominent, but the small tears were clean and in the process of healing well. If Holmes remained calm, the wounds should close up in a matter of a few days, four at most.

Still, it was bothersome, having to wait when he had Holmes right there. And why?

_If he hadn't..._

Watson paused, keeping his finger still in the tight heat of Holmes' body as he felt a surge of anger shoot through him.

_It's his fault._

True, the doctor himself was partly to blame for the damage, but if Holmes hadn't fought... If he had _listened._

If Holmes had listened to him when Watson had told him to relax, if Holmes hadn't kicked and thrashed so violently, forcing him to rush with the preparations...

Holmes lower body jerked, and a small gasp sounded from behind the gag when Watson unconsciously thrust the finger deeper.

If Holmes had followed his instructions, there wouldn't have been any damage at all! And why hadn't he?

Watson curled his finger, pressing upwards again, harder.

Perhaps Holmes thought himself better? Even on a subject he had no experience on.

He had always been horrible at letting others take the lead, and most around him, Watson included, often indulged him in this behaviour – letting Holmes do as he pleased, _rewarding_ him for it.

Had the man deluded himself into believing he was always in the right?

Watson grit his teeth, plunging his finger in as far as it could go.

It was common – Holmes refusing to listen to reason, even when it came from his own 'dearest' friend.

_The egoistical bastard._

He twisted his wrist, feeling a light bead of sweat on his forehead as Holmes' nostrils flared while he involuntarily clamped down on the digit buried inside of him.

_Damn him._

_I should just do it –_ wrench his finger out and push his cock to the warm hole. To _hell_ with the stitches, to _hell_ with Holmes' crying. It was his own fault. It _was!_ And he owed Watson, he -

Holmes' legs trembled, and a small, so very small, pained mewl reached Watson's ears and made him pause.

Holmes was shaking beneath him – shaking around his finger, breathing heavily into the gag and shifting his head on the pillow. His lower body pushed upwards, and Watson looked down, at his own hand, the appendage he'd been thrusting into the man seconds ago; the angry, red skin he'd spent the past half hour examining and covering with soothing lubricant.

Just a few days.

He had to wait.

Just three, maybe four.

_Do it._

He shook his head.

Holmes had promised him. Holmes had been _good_ . This... _This isn't the proper time for punishment_.

And what would he get out of doing it, apart from the short-lived pleasure? If the stitches broke, if infection set in, then what?

He moved back, letting his finger slide out of Holmes' body with a wet sound, dripping and warm from the man's slick insides.

No, he could wait. And, Holmes... Holmes had been _scared,_ Watson reminded himself. He couldn't punish the man for _that_.

Could he?

Holmes had gone silent again, and Watson narrowed his eyes and fixed them on his rising chest.

_He disobeyed. In the bathroom. He did **something**. Just like you predicted._

But...

He had planned to confront the man with the incident later, use it to test Holmes' willingness to answer his questions truthfully.

And... He didn't...

_I don't want to hurt him._

The desire had been there, briefly, but it had disappeared now. He just wanted to carry on with the plan he'd initially set up, the reason why he'd tied up Holmes after waking in the first place – the lesson.

 _That_ was important.

This wasn't about his own desires or needs, however urgent they may be.

Holmes couldn’t help it, he had to be taught.

 _Yes._ That was Watson's main task for now. To guide, make sure Holmes got used to being touched, pleasured and giving pleasure in return.

And once the stitches were ready for removal, once they were gone, Holmes would bend over willingly, open himself up for Watson on the bed with eager fingers and _be_ _g_ to be filled.

His hand absently went to his own cock, stiffening against Holmes' leg while he focused his gaze on the man's limp member.

Holmes was still asleep, obviously needing the rest, but he wanted to...

He moved his hand forwards, ghosting a finger over Holmes' vulnerable flesh and letting out a slight moan when the cock before him stirred in response.

He couldn't stop himself; he took it in his hand, resting his other on Holmes' upturned thigh, and leant down.

_Wait._

Watson stilled, lips a few inches from touching Holmes' flush flesh.

If this was to be a lesson, shouldn't the detective be awake for all of it?

He swallowed and looked down, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the tender skin of the cock in his hand.

Would it really matter? If he tasted Holmes, made him a bit ready?

They had plenty of time for rehearsals, in case Holmes needed them.

Even if his mind was absent, his body would still respond and learn from Watson's touch, become familiar with sensations Holmes had never allowed it to experience properly.

Watson nodded.

Somewhere, deeply buried in his own mind, as he moved forwards and placed a light kiss to Holmes' tip, he was aware that he also quite enjoyed seeing the man like this – unaware and vulnerable, so open and responsive to the touch.

He swirled his tongue around the head, moving his hand from Holmes' thigh further down to caress the base of the swelling member in his mouth.

And where was the shame in that? In appreciating the beauty before him?

Holmes let out a small puff of air through his nose, almost a moan, as Watson took him halfway in. His cheeks clenched as his limbs strained in the bonds, slowly beginning to jerk upwards in an uncoordinated rhythm.

It was crime not to, an utter waste to ignore the needs so clearly presented in Holmes' pent up body.

Watson let the head of the stiffened cock rest in the back of his mouth, sucking inwards and feeling his own member twitch when Holmes arched his back with a muffled groan as his lower back began to tremble.

The sounds and movements intensified when Watson moved his hands to the man's scrotum and began massaging the soft flesh as he hollowed his cheeks and took Holmes all the way in.

Holmes was practically squirming, grinding his head into the pillow and rubbing up against the roof of Watson's mouth, nostrils flaring while another strangled moan sounded from behind the gag.

But he wasn't awake.

_Not yet._

Watson pulled back and Holmes jerked, unconsciously trying to follow him, cock fully erect and slick with saliva once it left Watson's mouth.

He sat for a while between Holmes' legs, just observing the sleeping, aroused form and the small twitches it made as Holmes' body tried to find some sort of release.

It was mesmerizing, watching the man's back arch off the mattress while he thrust into the air, listening to the small moans and muffled intakes of breath.

After a few minutes without further stimuli, Holmes began to calm, breathing more evenly and lying back against the covers.

He was still hard, waiting for Watson to finish the job, _needing_ him to.

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

It didn't take long, once he took Holmes in his mouth again, pressing the tip of a finger in between the soft curve underneath his sack, for the man to show signs of waking.

At first he squirmed, shifting his legs and rolling his hips upwards – a low groan working it's way through the gag, but then -

Watson held still and looked up, lips still wrapped tight around the throbbing flesh in his mouth. He stared at Holmes' flushed face once his body went stiff and still, observed the way his brows furrowed beneath the blindfold when he started regaining full consciousness.

It was incredible, and almost frightening, the way the form before him changed once its owner fully woke.

Holmes' legs thrashed against the bonds and he tried to lift himself with a muffled yell, writhing on the bed and unsuccessfully trying to close his thighs.

He bucked his lower body in an attempt at throwing Watson off, but the doctor stayed, massaging the underside of the man's shaft with a persistent tongue and keeping his eyes locked on Holmes' face.

He worked carefully, drawing the movements out as he pulled back and flicked his tongue against the swollen head, before taking the entirety of the member in his mouth again.

Holmes whimpered.

The blindfold was damp.

There was sweat, on his thighs and flustered face, between the crease of his cheeks when Watson curved a finger and held it to the lubricated entrance.

He began sucking, ignoring the slight discomfort of Holmes rubbing against his uvular as the man's hips thrust uncontrollably forwards.

It was such a pleasant sight and experience – the yearning signals Holmes' body sent, paired with the utter confusion and conflicting feelings he seemed to be having.

He wanted it badly, the taste and feeling of Holmes' release – seeing him come undone again – give into Watson completely.

He moved his head back, letting Holmes slide partially out of his mouth to rub his tongue against his slit, methodically and fast – holding the man's legs firmly down on the mattress when they started to twitch as Holmes breathing sped up.

He was panting, shaking with arousal, almost ready.

Once Watson lowered himself and sucked, letting a finger slip into the tight heat of Holmes' insides again, the body below him stiffened.

The cock twitched in his mouth. Once. Twice.

Holmes moaned, threw his head backwards and began rutting, thrusting wildly up against the roof of Watson's mouth while his bound hands fluttered on the sheets.

He let out a loud sob when he came, clenching down on the finger while his warm spend shot its way down Watson's throat in long spurts.

Watson stayed there, swallowing down the man's sweet release and keeping him in his mouth as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm.

His insides clung to Watson's finger once he carefully eased it out and wiped it on the bedding.

He was still jerking his hips weakly upwards, making small mewling sounds behind the gag as his cock softened on Watson's tongue.

Once the member was completely spent and limp, Watson let it slip from his mouth, easing himself back on the mattress while stroking Holmes' shivering thighs.

He had almost forgotten his own erection, so caught up in the sight of Holmes writhing on the bed he hadn't had thoughts for anything else.

It wasn't a problem though. Not at all. That was for Holmes to resolve now, his _duty_ – to show Watson he had learned, and truly intended to follow his lead.

Holmes would do better this time. _He promised_ , Watson reminded himself. _He_ _did!_ Yes he had – nodded and answered ' _yes_ _'_. He _wanted_ to.

Holmes shifted on the bed and gasped something into the gag with a small jerk when Watson's fingers trailed his lower stomach.

He _wanted_ to – was eager to repay Watson in kind and make up for behaving so childishly the other night.

“I suppose I should have woken you.”

Holmes' head lifted from the pillow at the sound of his voice.

The skin beneath him was hot, covered in small beads of sweat, and he kept caressing Holmes' abdomen as he spoke, moving forwards to place a light kiss to the warm skin.

“But I figured you needed the rest. And you really have no idea of how irresistible you are. I couldn't help myself," he confessed with a sigh. "It was otherworldly Holmes. It truly was.”

He licked a stripe down the man's stomach, tightening his hands on his flesh as the muscles beneath shuddered.

“Did you feel it?”

Holmes didn't answer.

It wasn't a real question either way. Of _course_ he had felt it.

Watson smiled.

“Oh, I think you did.”

He patted the spent member, before tightening his hand around it, grazing the sensitive skin with the tip of a nail.

“Did you not?”

After a few seconds of nothing, he squeezed down, and Holmes whined and nodded his head, pushing his hips downwards to escape the pressure.

_Good._

He removed his hand again, letting it rest on Holmes' upturned knee while the man heaved into the gag.

“Last night. When you said,-” Watson rubbed the skin beneath him affectionately, pleased that it seemed to calm Holmes' shivering. “When you said you wanted to do better.”

His eyes locked onto Holmes' face.

“Did you mean it?”

Holmes was quiet and unmoving.

Watson could picture his eyes, wide and constantly shifting back an forth beneath the blindfold as the gears turned in his mind.

For a long time, so it at least seemed to Watson, Holmes did nothing.

Then, slowly, before Watson went for his privates again, he nodded – a small, wet 'yes' sounding from behind the gag.

A deep flow of warmth, pure love, _it had to be,_ ran through his body at Holmes' answer.

He quickly moved up, crawling over Holmes' bound limbs to kneel in front of his face on the pillow, one hand stroking the, now clammy, shoulder – the other tugging at the scarf and pulling it out.

Holmes gasped.

He took a deep inhale of breath, moving his lips as if to speak, and Watson shushed him and shook his head, even though the man wasn't currently able to see it.

“While I find the sounds you make exhilarating, I'd prefer it if you stayed quiet for this. I need you to keep your focus.”

Holmes swallowed, sniffled up some mucus that had gathered beneath his nose, but kept silent.

His face had paled once Watson bent down and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.”

He positioned himself above Holmes' face, each knee weighing down the pillow below the man's head, erect cock grazing his closed lips. He could feel Holmes' quick breath on it, sending small tingles down Watson's lower body and making him shudder.

He settled his fingers in the dark hair before him, shifting himself closer so his cock was perfectly aligned with Holmes' mouth, before speaking again.

“Open your mouth.”

Holmes' lips stayed shut, and Watson frowned.

He tightened his hands in the man's locks, pushing the head of his cock more urgently against Holmes' pursed lips.

“It's all right. I know this is new to you.”

Holmes bit down into his lower lip and let out another sniffle as Watson stroked the side of his face.

“I'll guide you through it, but if you falter or fail to properly satisfy me, I'll take it I haven't demonstrated enough and I'll have to show you how it's done again before we start over.”

If Holmes had seemed pale before, he was practically as white as the freshly washed sheets once Watson paused.

He was awfully tense too, a typical sign of performance anxiety, but it would pass.

“There's nothing to be frightened of Holmes.”

Watson would rid him of all of his fears.

_Every single one of them._

“Now...”

He moved a hand down to stroke himself, caressing Holmes' jaw with the other as he spoke out the command again.

“Open your mouth.”

 

* * *

 *

*

*

 

             

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features:  
> Fingering.  
> Watson waking a gagged and blindfolded Holmes with a blowjob.  
> \-----
> 
> OMG, I can't get over these pictures, the drapery, the Holmes, the everything!  
> Here's how they happened:  
> Tera: If I draw you RDJ Holmes porn, can you add a specific scenario in the next chapter?  
> Author who lusts for anything featuring RDJ Holmes in compromising positions: doitdoitdoitdoitdoit.  
> *Requests for blindfolded and gagged Holmes getting molested*  
>  ~~Joke's on you, I WAS PLANNING ON DOING THAT ALL ALONG!~~
> 
> And she ups and draws these amazing (artistically tasteful, considering the subject) sketches, and I don't draw erotica, but I sure as fuck don't mind colouring it, so I did. She's not keen on posting her adult art un- anonymously online, so we agreed I post it in the fic. Cause I wouldn't want anyone to miss out on that. Also dat random baby Gladstone, I couldn't deal with not shoving him in there, so he's placed a bit awkwardly in the ending. 
> 
> The first one is based on the creepy fondling scene from chapter 10, so I think I might move it to that chapter at some point, which brings me to a question for the readers: Would you rather have links than pictures when the material is nsfw? And would you prefer it if the pictures were placed within the fic where it seemed appropriate and fitted with the text, as opposed to sticking them in the ending to avoid breaking the flow? 
> 
> I'm asking this because I have no clue, but I thought they looked nice in there.
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting <3


	17. Day 3: The importance of guidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes is well-behaved, yet something isn't quite right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams are taking up all of my time, but I managed to get this chapter done and edited in the span of two days :>
> 
> Please check the end-notes for specific warnings to avoid triggers.

_He moved a hand down to stroke himself, caressing Holmes' jaw with the other as he spoke out the command again._

_“Open your mouth.”_

He did not have to repeat his words again. Holmes did it. Exactly as he had been told. He parted his lips, breath ghosting over the tip of Watson's stiffened member as he allowed it to slide past his teeth and rest on the front of his tongue.

“Good.” 

Watson inched himself forwards, taking hold of the back of Holmes' head with both of his hands to run his fingers through the soft locks of newly washed hair – smiling when the faint smell of lavender reached his nose. Holmes swallowed and held himself completely still as he awaited further instructions.

“ _Very_ good.”

The man's pale cheeks had reddened. He was still trembling, stiff in his posture beneath Watson, and the doctor found himself wondering with a feeling he couldn’t ascribe to anything but excitement, if Holmes would catch on immediately – how many times he would need to be brought to release before getting it right. 

He could picture him now, shaking on the bed, covered in his own spend, sobbing with pleasure and for the relief only Watson could give him.

Would Holmes cry out his name again? Beg perhaps? So wrung out by the end, that he couldn't even speak or move properly.

The thought sent a shiver through Watson's body, and his cock stirred in the detective's mouth.

Holmes' throat emitted a faint sound, but he stayed silent as promised, and Watson caressed the back of is neck in approval. There was no point in telling the man not to bite, and if Holmes chose to, for whatever reason, the doctor was almost looking forwards to correcting him.   

“I know you remember it, every little bit I've showed you.“

Holmes' memory was astounding. Every touch, word and sensation had no doubt been stored and categorized - never to be deleted or forgotten. It would always be there, as Watson knew so many other things - utterly unimportant and trivial - were in the detective's mind.

His grip turned firmer, making the smaller man beneath him flinch as he pulled him closer.

“Use your tongue.”

Holmes let out another muffled sound, but Watson felt the soft brush of his tongue beneath the head of his erection soon enough – before he had the time to correct the man.

Holmes' movement were weak and uncoordinated, hardly very enthusiastic, though lovely as they felt, and Watson frowned and tugged lightly on the hair between his fingers, prompting Holmes to pause his amateurish ministrations with a small gasp.

“Harder.” 

Holmes complied and pressed up against Watson's slit with more urgency, flicking his tongue over the flesh with harder strokes, and the feeling of it compelled him to pull the man closer - biting his lip with a soft groan before his voice returned.

“Now, suck inwards, _gently_ , and keep moving your tongue.”

Holmes gulped and drooled, but did as he was told. He hollowed his cheeks and began sucking in a slow rhythm, breathing heavily through his nose as more snot began to gather beneath his flaring nostrils.

It was obvious Holmes had never done it properly before, but his mouth still felt divine, and Watson inhaled sharply when he felt sweat gather on his forehead, moving his hips a bit back to let Holmes breathe around his member.

The man was shuddering and coughing, yet Watson found himself quite pleased with his performance. There was no time for praise though. Harsh discipline, as he had come to learn, was the best method for keeping Holmes focused and alert.

“Move your head up and take me in as far as you can.”

Holmes swallowed heavily around him and whimpered, but lifted his head from the pillow and took several inches of Watson down, lips wrapped tight around the middle of his shaft as the tip of the head reached the back of the detective's mouth. 

Watson grit his teeth and fought to not just thrust his way down the man's throat. It was absolutely maddening – to hold such power over Holmes – watching his reddened face as he took him fully in – knowing full well no one had ever felt the use of his lips and mouth as this.

“Don't stop licking.” 

A quick pinch of the detective's left nipple made Holmes start rubbing his tongue against the base of the cock with efficient speed.

“I'm going to push down now, and I advice you to loosen your throat up and relax as much as possible.”

Holmes sputtered and bucked when Watson began lowering himself. He twisted on the bed and jerked his legs in the restraints, protests drowned out by the flesh blocking his airway, and Watson kept moving until he felt his cock hit the back of the man's throat. He held himself there till the body stopped convulsing before he coaxed Holmes' head up again, panting a bit as he urged the detective on. 

“Lick the underside. Hard _._ Don't stop _ah!_ -”

Holmes obeyed, and the sensation that followed made the world turn blindingly white for a short second. He nearly buckled over, and had to hold on to Holmes' head to keep himself upright.

His eyes were closed in euphoria, fluttering lightly as he let out a stifled moan.

Holmes was _indeed_ a quick learner.

Watson began thrusting, telling Holmes when to slow down or speed up his movements as he rolled his hips and sank deeper into the warm channel of the mouth so seldomly silenced or tamed.

“You’re doing splendid, just – ugh- incredible. I'm almost-”

He cut off the sentence with a small gasp as another deep inwards suck sent a shudder through his lower body.

“When I come, I want you to swallow and keep up the movement till I'm completely done.”

Holmes was trembling anew, gulping around his cock – Adam’s apple moving erratically up and down as he fought to accumulate the full length invading his mouth, and Watson paused when he heard it – a disconcerting sound. A low keening that had begun building in the man's throat, raising in volume and compelling Watson to open his eyes and look down at the face between his knees, only to spot fresh tears dampening the blindfold and glistening on Holmes' flushed cheeks.

 _Perplexing..._  

He stilled his movements, not sure of how to react. Why was Holmes crying _now?_ This was not to be a punishment. The man had _asked_ for it.

He sighed and pulled back a bit, petting Holmes hair and letting him gather himself as he sniffled and hiccuped around the stiff member – a tiny trace of pre-come accumulating with the drool running down his chin.

This was rather embarrassing, Watson had to admit, but Holmes has done very well otherwise. If the man had enough dignity to pull himself together, Watson saw no reason to take action.

Holmes heaved and swallowed repeatedly around him, shifted his head on the pillow several times in an attempt at easing himself back, before he eventually began sucking again.

_Very good._

He had not even needed to point it out, or tell Holmes to start up again. The crying was troubling, but he supposed there was no reason to embarrass the man further by addressing it.

And Holmes' mouth really _was_ divine. The constant pressure of his tongue against Watson's flesh, combined with the erratic sucking motions and the vibrations each choked gag sent through his body, was enough to make the doctor reach his release within seconds of picking up his motions. 

Holmes gulped and jerked when the first spurts of thick liquid hit his tongue, and Watson pushed in, holding him tight against his crotch as his spend filled the man's mouth and throat.

“Swallow.”

Holmes did, albeit with some trouble – making a mess of himself as he fought to keep the fluid down.

Once emptied, Watson slowly pulled back and moved his left leg up and over Holmes' head to sit beside his heaving and hiccuping form on the bed.

He was a sight for the privileged – naked and gasping for breath – come running down his stubbled chin and into the dark hair on the pillow, flush cheeks spotted with strings of pearly white and droplets of sweat. 

Watson moved a hand up to run his fingers through the warm fluid, getting the digits wet and slick before he pushed them to Holmes' mouth.

The man let out another small sound, shook his head weakly, and parted his lips to speak. 

“Wa- _ugh_ -”

Watson frowned and cut him off by shoving the fingers in. He observed Holmes' scrunched up face as he pushed them down against the man's tongue, moving his other hand to Holmes' crotch and voicing out the command.

“Lick them.”

Holmes was silent. Still stubborn as ever – and over something so _ridiculous_. Watson shook his head and closed his eyes for a brief moment, annoyance creeping into his voice as he curled his fingers up against the roof of the man's mouth. 

“You've been doing overly well dear boy, it would be a shame to nullify that now.”

When Holmes did still not comply immediately, Watson swiftly pinched the underside of the man's limp shaft.

Holmes opened his mouth wide at the sudden act of violence and wailed around the fingers, protest quickly turning garbled when Watson pushed them further in.

He was starting to loose his patience – close to removing his hand in favour of putting his mouth back on the man's cock to teach him a lesson.

“Lick them clean Sherlock.”

When he finally felt the swirl of Holmes' tongue over his fingers, he let out a mumbled approval and moved his hand away from the man's crotch, petting his hair instead and smiling as he watched Holmes work on getting the digits cleaned off of their joined fluids. 

He was surprised at how much he enjoyed the simple gesture – of how urgent it somehow seemed to him – to ensure that Holmes consumed it all.

He couldn't let it go to waste.

It was meant for the man beneath him.

 _No one else now_.

Once completely cleaned of lubricant and bodily fluids, Watson removed his fingers with a satisfied nod, and Holmes lent back against the pillow with a shaky exhale. His lips were wet and glistening with his own saliva, astoundingly inviting in the morning light, and Watson moved forwards to capture them with his own. 

He could taste the faint traces of himself mixed with Holmes on the man's tongue, the chemical after-taste of semen and sweat – the evidence of his own relief coating the insides of Holmes' mouth.

Holmes did not fuss or falter when he pushed his tongue in. He had _learned_. Instead the detective rubbed his own, although clumsily, against Watson's with vigor – _eagerness_.

When Watson removed the blindfold, keeping his mouth locked on Holmes', the captivating sight of the man's dark eyes was enough to make him break the kiss and sit back. 

They were big and round, still rather dazed, either from the morphine induced sleep or the detective's much needed release, and he found himself lost in them – nothing but the deep, brown pools of divine intelligence, and... _something_ he couldn’t quite pinpoint _,_ getting through the fog that had seemed to settle itself over the doctor’s mind.

It was as if they had a hypnotizing effect on him, luring Watson closer even as Holmes shrank into the mattress and pursed his lips together in a clear sign of displeasure.

Watson's forwards movement was halted by a low growling sound emitted from the detective's middle. Holmes winced, shutting off the spellbinding light of those eyes with a flutter of his dark lashes, and Watson pulled back with a grimace.

“Dear God, what have I been thinking! You haven’t had breakfast yet. You must be fatigued.”

He stood up, fumbling over his words as Holmes opened his eyes to stare at him again. 

“I'm terribly sorry old boy.”

He was, he really was.

Watson was many things. On rare occasions, he felt like all of them at once, but he was first and foremost Holmes' doctor.

Leaving a patient to starve was _completely unacceptable_.

 "I'll get us something from the kitchen promptly. You should have said something! Honestly Holmes, your eating habits are bad enough as it is. Tea?”

He was speaking too fast - rushing with his movements as he fought to pull up his discarded trousers, not really expecting Holmes to answer, but the man shook his head warily, and Watson repeated the motion.

“Your loss, I brought home quite the wonderful batch from that little shop across the corner you so enjoy.”

He smiled, but Holmes did not return it, and the luring feeling of _something_ that had suddenly hit him persuaded Watson to leave the room in a hurry as soon as he was dressed from the waist down – Holmes' eyes burning holes in the back of his head as he left the open door to conjure up something for the man to eat.

His heart was beating uncomfortably fast, and he stumbled a bit before reaching the door to the small tea kitchen.

This was ridiculous. Holmes had done well.

The doctor mumbled under his breath as he lit the fire under the stove.

_Declining an offer of tea is not a crime or punishable offence._

He nodded to himself and pulled out a pair of porcelain bowls from beneath the wash counter, but paused when he noticed his hands trembling as they placed them on the table.

 _Then why does_ _it_ _bother you so?_

He frowned and ran a hand across his face.

_It does not._

Settling for ignoring the voice lingering in the depths of his mind, he put a saucepan of water to boil on top of one of the free heating plates of Hudson's small stove. Porridge would do Holmes good he decided, and it would without a doubt help soften the man's bowels – which was much needed, taking the placement of Holmes' stitches into account.

There was nothing to worry about, even if the tea had been bought with _Holmes_ in mind. They would eat and Holmes would be calmer now. Holmes had been good. He _had_. Holmes would aspire to do _nothing_ but good from now on. This day was to be one of enlightenment, not dread.

Yes. Yes _exactly._

As the fire slowly worked on heating the pan of water, he left the kitchen and found himself standing next to the door to Holmes' room again, hidden from the man's view, but still able to see his feet and lower legs tethered to the bedposts from his standing position. 

He didn't know why he felt the need to watch the man like this. But ever since he'd returned to find Holmes with a fractured thumb and bloodied wrists, he felt overly cautious about leaving the detective alone – even within the boundaries of their shared home.

Simply seeing Holmes' legs resting on the bed, knowing their owner was calm and _there_ , put his mind at ease.

Holmes was profoundly quiet - only a small cough and twitch now and then giving away the man's consciousness.

The doctor stood there, observing every small movement Holmes' legs made, heart skipping a beat when he wriggled one of his toes or breathed out loud enough for the sound to reach Watson's ears from the open door. Holmes only tested the bonds once, letting out a small disgruntled sound when they didn't give at a harsh jerk, and Watson couldn't help the smile that had crept onto his face – he found it quite humorous for some reason, and had to stop himself from actually laughing out loud when Holmes lowered his limbs and stopped moving altogether.

He had not made his presence known to the man at the time, but he had not spent all of the previous evening in the dining room drinking himself into a stupor.

Every now and then, between each glass of mind-numbing alcohol, he had slipped up the stairs to stand in front of the closed door, listening to the man's desperate attempts at freeing himself from the post – feeling righteousness flow through him when Holmes finally wept in regret for refusing his offer of forgiveness.

Many times, Watson had considered walking in to comfort him, but he had also felt an indescribable glee at the whole scenario. Being the bane of this man's existence, having Holmes be so utterly reliant on him... It was incredibly addicting, more so than gambling and alcohol had _ever_ been. It was a thrill unlike anything.

Once he'd returned to the dining room, he hadn't been capable of thinking of anything but the kneeling man trussed to the post upstairs - hearing the weak bumps of Holmes' bound legs thumping against the wooden planks of the bedroom floor as he'd refilled his glass and stared at the coals burning in the fireplace with an absent smile on his face.

For nearly twenty minutes, Watson stood there and listened with his eyes locked on to the man's legs, reminiscing the sounds Holmes had made the previous night, before he finally retreated to the kitchen to pour the oats for Holmes' porridge - assured that the man was docile and well-behaved – _pliant._   

_Today is going to be a marvelous day._

He added several spoons of sugar to Holmes' portion once cooked – opting for adding a few slices of apple to the meal as well, before pouring the hot water for his own tea.

Holmes needed all the nutrition he could get.

_Utterly fantastic._

When Holmes had had his fill, his mood would be better.

Watson backed out the door, tray in his trembling hands – milk and juice for Holmes – in case the man preferred one over the other, stacked next to the piping hot bowls of porridge and sliced fruit.

Now that he came to think about it, Holmes was _alway_ s rather grumpy on his usual mornings, was he not? 

He felt reassured by the thought as he entered the bedroom, knowing that _that_ particular habit of the detective's, would soon be forgotten.

_Perfection._

Mornings were Watson's favourite time of the day, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:  
> A tied down Holmes giving Watson a reluctant blowjob (some crying).  
> Watson forcing Holmes to lick his fingers clean of come.  
> Expansion on dark!Watson's... voyeuristic tendencies.  
> \-----------------------------------------------


	18. Day 3:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything isn't quite going Dark/Watson's way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh ohgod this took forever (almost 6 months) and I've been feeling so bad over not finishing it sooner ;-; So sorry, I know how shitty is is to wait so long for updates. No particular warnings in this one, just your usual molesting and unwanted touching. 
> 
> Beta-read and checked over by [NopeUnintended](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NopeUnintended/profile/)

 

The following hours passed in relative peace - as Watson knew they would.

Holmes ate when the spoon of lukewarm porridge was pushed to his mouth, silent and well-behaved, save for a few ugly glances Watson decided to ignore in light of the man's compliance and willingness to eat without fuss.

He felt no need for words either, content with simply watching Holmes eat, nodding and smiling whenever he parted his lips anew to allow Watson to place a freshly cut piece of apple on his tongue.

The detective's eyes had stopped their intense staring, much to his relief, and were now gazing up at him with what he could only perceive as gratefulness – wide and almost child-like in their appearance.

“That did you good I bet. More?”

Holmes shook his head on the pillows, filling Watson's insides with a familiar warmth when the soft 'thank you' left the man's mouth and reached his ears.

 _Grateful_ was the right word for it – for what he saw in Holmes' face.

Whatever else could it even have been?

He put the spoon down to run a hand through Holmes' hair, caressing his bruised cheek slowly as he spoke.

“Think nothing of it dear. I've always enjoyed taking care of you.”

Holmes shot his eyes down then and said nothing more, and Watson drank his tea in silence on the bed. He moved his fingers across Holmes' naked chest and abdomen without really being aware of it as he sipped down the warm liquid while observing the slow-passing clouds through the window.

++++

Holmes stumbled and lent on Watson's shoulder for support voluntarily once he led the detective to the bathroom.

There had been crying then. Small, choked sounds of discomfort from Holmes when he had been allowed to do his business on the lavatory. Watson could do nothing for him but simply pet his head and whisper encouraging words to the man's trembling form in an attempt to soothe his pains.

After the uncomformtable yet unavoidable affair, Holmes had been cleaned and the bandages reapplied -, All this done in silence on the bed.

Watson found himself somewhat unsure of how to respond to the man's complete lack of verbal response, apart from the whispered 'thank you' that sounded hollowly from his pale lips now and then.

He had at first attributed Holmes' silence as an effect of the restless drug-induced sleep, but he did not know what to make of it, or if he should take any action against it.

Holmes wasn't directly disobeying or showing any defiance.

He did not fight the restraints.

He did not glare at Watson with strange eyes or expressions that spoke of disdain and hate.

He answered whenever Watson asked him a question.

_Are you cold Dear? 'no'._

_Would you like some more to drink? 'yes'._

He looked Watson in the eye and told him _'I love you_ ' as many times as he was asked to.

Admittedly Holmes had cried a bit and fiddled under Watson's hands during the time spent on the lavatory, but he had been unreadable and blank-faced afterwards. He had not spoken once without being prompted to, and the usually sharp gaze of his dark eyes seemed somewhat absent and far away.

Despite this, Watson found himself to be rather content.

Holmes may have been disinterested in conversation, but his body would be responsive in all the ways the detective was otherwise not.

It was fine; _utterly fine_ if Holmes wanted to keep staring at the ceiling as Watson pulled him taut and placed a warm kiss to his stomach, moving his fingers downwards to knead and massage the man's sack while rubbing against the underside of his shaft with a thumb.

The member beneath him was completely soft.

But it did not bother him. Not in the slightest.

The detective's body was still a wonder to explore. Every small twitch and stifled sound was a gift.

Watson ran his hand over the pale stomach, felt the muscles flutter beneath his touch and watched Holmes' face carefully as the man stifled a sound and locked his eyes on the ceiling, breath coming out in small bursts as he fought to not simply give in and let the pleasure he was experiencing show on his face.

The sight of it made him smile. Watson knew by experience that this apprehension would not last.

Soon, Holmes would be unable to mask his reactions to the touch and fill the room anew with the sounds of his soft moans and whimpers as he'd rut himself shamelessly into Watson's hand.

He might be too embarrassed and inexperienced to voice it yet, but there was no question the touch affected him.

He was already beginning to fidget.

Holmes clenched his bound hands in the sheets behind his back and pulled lightly at the ties around his ankles, small twitchy movements Watson knew would turn into a slow squirm once the cock in his hand began to respond to the gentle touch.

He rubbed the tip between his fingers, softly, pulling the sensitive skin down while keeping a sharp eye on Holmes' face.

The man's eyes were closed. His mouth had opened in a silent intake of breath, chest arching upwards and bathing his nipples in the warm morning light when he finally let out a strangled sound and gave a small thrust into Watson's hand.

Watson sipped it all up as if it was the finest wine known to man.

There were no excuses now. Holmes was not drugged, nor half-asleep.

He was responding with both his body and mind - awake and perfectly aware of his own actions.

He was willing. Silent perhaps, but otherwise doing everything to show Watson his longing for the touch - moving his lower back upwards to let his member slide into the cove of Watson's hand again, this time accompanied by a small whine when there was no further movement on the doctor's part.

Part of Watson wanted to relieve the man of his discomfort and reap the rewards immediately, but Holmes had not yet spoken or asked him, and he also wanted to see if Holmes would do the task on his own – so desperate for it he would rut himself to relief and gasp Watson's name as he spilled on the fresh sheets in his unbidden lust for satisfaction.

There was an almost animalistic craving and response to intimate touch buried in the man's otherwise reluctant behaviour concerning his own needs. It was a side of his long-time friend and partner Watson had only seen come forth in the past few days, and it pleased him indefinitely to be the one responsible for it.

It was as if every sensation and experience of bodily pleasure was completely new and alien to Holmes – something he had seldom, if _ever_ indulged in.

It was quite bizarre to be honest, but equally fascinating.

Did Holmes not even touch himself regularly?

It was a question the doctor had often found himself entranced by.

Was Holmes truly so ashamed of his own human nature he did not dare to tempt himself when alone?

Watson could easily picture the detective, seated awkwardly on the bed within the safety of his own privacy during the rare occasions in which the urge and need for relief could not be ignored or forgotten by means of excessive work, embarrassed and flustered over his lack of control – over the very _idea_ that he and the 'gentlemen' lurking around the brothels of East End would have anything in common.

Holmes' mind was unreasonable at times, terribly so concerning his own mental and physical state. He would never admit to succumbing to sleep or substances for reasons other than pure bodily need, let alone human touch or affection.

He had most likely fooled himself into believing any carnal yearning was nothing but a side effect produced by the limits of his own mortal shell – perhaps even something to be scorned and ashamed of.

But he had been _wrong_ , and in the movement of his limbs and pinched expression Watson saw everything Holmes had fought to hide.

His cheeks had slightly reddened, and a flush of colour had spread across his body in alignment with the rise of the warm member in Watson's hand.

Holmes twisted on the bed, let out a slight moan and shook his head, before arching up into Watson's fist again with a choked-off grunt.

He held himself there for a while, arms and back shivering with the effort to keep his abdomen lifted while he nudged his erection against the inner side of the presented palm.

Holmes moved slowly, but the squirm soon developed into a steady rhythm.

He would breathe in and push upwards, clench his buttocks and arch his back, then gasp and tremble once fully enveloped by Watson's hand, before lowering himself with a small groan - only to start up again as soon as he'd caught his breath.

Watson watched in fascination and kept his fist firmly in place while his free hand lingered over his own clothed crotch.

After some time, the soft sounds from the man turned frustrated and his movements began to pick up in speed – every thrust seeming harder and requiring more effort than the last.

His teeth were clenched together, hands pulling fruitlessly at the bed sheets behind his back as his brows pinched together in concentration.

“Mmmhp-”

The muffled exclamation was followed by another harsh thrust. Holmes was looking at him now, fluttering his eyelids and pushing the back of his head into the pillow, but meeting Watson's gaze nonetheless.

They had often spoken to each other without words, and now, as Holmes was finally showing emotion on his face, his request for aid was clear.

Watson shook his head with a slight smile and kept his hand still and unmoving despite Holmes' silent plea.

“Care to enlighten me old boy, as to why you are so eerily quiet this morning?”

Holmes quivered, took another deep breath and bucked into the hand without any words, and Watson's expression hardened.

While Holmes had openly expressed his need and excitement, he was clearly still deeply bound by his misplaced resentment for intimacy.

_But he will damn well answer when asked a direct question!_

Watson tightened his fist for a second, making Holmes squeak as the grip forced him to stop moving. “I understand you're caught up in the moment, but I think using your voice is the least you can do when you're begging me so openly to assist you.”

Holmes bit into his lip and closed his eyes again.

For some time he was still, forcing himself to lie back against the sheets so that only the tip of his member rested in the opening of Watson's hand - as if trying to will his erection down by stopping all movement at once.

It was a sad attempt at defiance, and not to mention, _utterly pointless_.

He might think himself above such needs and matters, but even the _Great Sherlock Holmes_ was not immune to the effects of his own desires.

All it took was a few strokes of Watson's hand, the light brush of a thumb against the head of Holmes' swollen tip as he ran his other palm across the man's lower stomach in a soothing caress.

“It's all right.”

Holmes' face was scrunched up and reddened, eyes shut tightly while the rest of his body trembled with the effort to keep still.

“Just ask me.”

He squeezed his hand, Holmes' bound legs failed to keep calm and his face tightened further as they jerked upwards.

“Let me help you.”

Soon the man beneath him was shaking and squirming on the bed again, nudging his glistening erection against the inside of Watson's palm and dampening it with pre-ejaculate while a muffled moan worked its way through his closed lips.

“I've always helped you Holmes.” He found his grip tightening in frustration as he bit the words out. “Have I ever let you down?”

Holmes said nothing, but he did open his eyes, and the defeat was clear - embedded in every bit-back moan and frantic movement of his bound limbs, the urgency in which he pushed upwards for friction when Watson squeezed him again.

“Have I?”

Holmes chewed on his lower lip and shot Watson a look of utter despair.

His voice was hoarse, barely there once he opened his mouth to finally speak.

“John I-”

The words were abruptly interrupted before Holmes got any further, and they both tensed and turned their heads towards the door when a loud knocking sounded from below.

The doctor felt his innards turn cold with dread.

Holmes' eyes widened - erection and Watson forgotten as soon as he processed the sound.

There was little time to react.

Before Holmes could alert the stranger at the door, Watson threw himself up and covered the man's lower face with both of his hands, pushing him down into the mattress and ensuring absolute silence as he strained his ears and listened for further activity by the front door.

 _Who?_ Had he forgotten to cancel some unknown appointment of Holmes'? Was it a client? Or perhaps Mary? Hudson returned early?

_Good God it could be anyone!_

Holmes jerked and began protesting into his palm when the knocking sounded again – bucking up against Watson's body and forcing him to push further down to restrain the man on the bed.

“ _Quiet!_ ”

He tightened his grip as he hissed out the command, but Holmes did not quiet himself; instead the muffled protesting turned into screaming. The detective shook his head and kicked his bound legs, growling and sneering into the hand as if suddenly overtaken by some animal.

He even tried to _bite_.

But there was, regrettably, no time to punish him for it. Watson could not afford to ignore the knocking; not when a heavily muffled voice reached their ears through the closed window leading out to the main street.

“ _Mr. Holmes!_ ”

Watson cursed and Holmes fought even harder to escape the hands tightly fitted over his lower face.

“ _It's the Yard!_ ”

He grit his teeth and held on for dear life.

_Go away._

Watson tightened his grip over Holmes' huffing mouth while the bed creaked and shook under his frantic thrashing - the warmth of his leaking member rubbing up against Watson's inner thigh and leaving a damp smear on the fabric when he attempted to throw the doctor off.

The damned knocking sounded again.

Lestrade did evidently _not_ go away.

“ _I know you're there!_ ”

Holmes' whole body was straining beneath Watson, throat shaking around every muffled yell while his chest heaved and trembled with the effort.

“ _Dr. Watson?_ ”

The voice below had taken on a slight suspicious tone.

He had no other options but to confront the Inspector in order to make him leave.

Lestrade was a well-meaning man, but frighteningly common in his way of reasoning. He would not understand, and he had always seemed to find the circumstances of their relationship a tad strange, perhaps even held some sort disdain towards it.

In the minds of such individuals, intimacy between two men was not deemed appropriate, nor legal.

“Quiet Holmes. _Damn you be quiet_. I'll speak to him. Stop- “

He kept his left hand over the man's mouth, pressing down with all of his strength as his other found the discarded scarf besides Holmes' pillow and gathered it up in a small ball before pushing it to his open mouth. The detective's struggling increased and he writhed and howled into the fabric as it was pushed in as far as Watson considered safe before tying it in place.

He stood up quickly then, checking over his clothes with haste while Holmes thrashed and exhausted himself on the bed – screaming himself hoarse into the thick, silken scarf and kicking his bound legs upwards with all of his strength.

He made quite a wonderful picture, but it was a showcase of ill behaviour nonetheless, and _something_ had to be done about it.

“I cannot ignore this disdainful behavior, but I will have to attend to the Inspector first.”

Holmes kicked out again, a muffled array of curses reaching Watson through the gag as the doctor dried off his damp palm with the towel by the nightstand.

“For the love of God Holmes, try and compose yourself.”

Holmes snarled and wrenched his head away when Watson made to pet his hair, and he felt his own expression contort in disappointment.

He threw one last hard glance at the writhing body on the bed before taking his leave. The sounds of struggle were barely audible behind the door once Watson turned the key, and completely absent when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

The infuriating knocking however, did not let up, and he grimaced as he found himself nearing the source of it.

No light shone through the dark-tinted windows of the door in front of him.

He was tempted to turn around, but the Inspector had already made it clear he was not going to leave - that he was aware of their presence within the residence.

 _No matter._ He could take care of it.

Easily.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this is what I call a cockblocking entrance. Fucking Lestrade. Lord, I was sitting on parts of this chapter for so long I started getting bored of it. I can't even tell if it's good anymore. Couldn't come up with a title even. Just happy to be over with it to be honest. 
> 
> Thank you for your comments and kudos, and for waiting so long. I hope it won't happen again!


	19. Day 3:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As asked by a disoriented RDJ Holmes back in 2009: "Is it November?" Yes indeed it is, and also the day I'm finally uploading this chapter! 
> 
> I admit I might have been in a bit of a hurry there last time when I said waiting six months for an update wasn't going to happen again. 
> 
> HOWEVER, I'm not abandoning anything, and this installment has been beta-read, spellchecked and looked over by the very helpful [FoxyOwl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxyOwl/profile/), so it should be free of typos and work better grammatically for your reading convenience.  
> Also many thanks to [NopeUnintended](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NopeUnintended/profile/) who gave me some further suggestions and feedback. 
> 
> There are no additional warnings for this chapter.

Watson had no idea why the inspector was knocking on their door, but was fairly sure he could make Lestrade leave without having to take drastic measures.

The inspector had always been more at ease in Watson's company than Holmes', and Watson suspected Lestrade trusted the doctor more than he did his troublesome flatmate.

Watson took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair as he forced his expression into one of calmness. He gripped the handle of the dark oak wood door, opened it, and smiled down at the slightly disgruntled form of Inspector Lestrade.

“Pleased to see you Inspector.” He grasped the shorter man's hand in what he hoped would be perceived as an enthusiastic greeting, and continued, “I do apologize for the wait. Holmes has not been himself these days, with his fever and all.”

The concern in Watson’s voice was real. Holmes may not be experiencing a bad case of the flu, but he was indeed _ill._

The inspector's face softened as he drew back his hand, though there was a small hint of urgency in his voice when he answered.

“Ah, yes. Certainly. Actually, it's part of the reason I've come.”

A low thump sounded from above, and Watson grit his teeth.

Holmes was most likely still in the midst of throwing a fit.

Watson did not expect Holmes to stay silent, not with the violent way he had reacted to the knocking, but had no chance of putting an end to it while confined to the door opening with the inspector.

Did Lestrade hear it? Was he suspicious? _Stay calm._

“Really?” Watson feigned casual interest. 

The inspector nodded.

“Well, yes.” Lestrade paused for a second, seeming unsure before speaking again, “That, and we've had some complaints.”

The doctor's smile stiffened. “Do tell." 

Letrade, still standing on the doorsteps, coughed and shifted his weight awkwardly between his feet, on his tiptoes.

The urge to get away was starting to overpower the doctor's hold on himself.

Why would the man not _get on with it?_ Why was he standing down here conversing with the damned inspector when Holmes _needed_ him? And for that matter, why had Lestrade bothered to come himself when he could easily have sent someone in his place?

“I can deliver a message if needed. If you came to speak Holmes, that is.”

Watson could feel sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, and the beginnings of a slow throb settling in his bad leg, as Lestrade's expression turned somewhat suspicious.

“So, Mr. Holmes is not at home then?”

Watson nodded and kept his smile in place.

“Oh, yes, in his study room, beneath the covers, I hope. But I'm afraid Holmes has explicitly stated he won’t accept any guests of _any_ kind for the time being. He's a bit out of it.” Watson shook his head, and let out a weary sigh. “Would you believe it? Yesterday he thought me a stranger and began screaming when I attempted to escort him to his room.”

Lestrade considered this for some time before he spoke in a thoughtful voice:

“Well, that explains a great deal. See, we've had complaints of horrible sorts of noises coming from within your residence around midnight.” Lestrade made a face as he read the description of Holmes' hollering aloud from his small notebook, “Screaming ‘akin to a _banshee’_.”

Watson wasn't particularly keen on being reminded of the episode, but he held his expression and forced out a dry reply:

“He was in quite the mood.”

Lestrade shut the book and nodded again. “I see.”

Watson had to restrain himself from turning his head away from the inspector to look up the stairs.

What injuries might Holmes cause to his body this time in his enraged attempts to get free? Would it be possible for the detective to find a way out of the restraints again? What if he managed to draw so much attention to himself it could not go unnoticed?

Watson could _not_ take that chance, and it made him all the more anxious for Lestrade to finish his questions and get away. He knew, however, that running off to check on Holmes would only arouse suspicion, and instead urged the inspector to continue.

“You said you came partly for something else?”

Watson’s question was answered by another firm nod.

“Ah, yes. I suspect you've already given me an answer, but I also came to hear how the good detective fares. Well, that is to say, we've had business in this end of town all morning, and I reckoned I ought to stop by with the noise complaint either way.” Lestrade paused to clear his throat. “We're quite in a... eh, _dry spot_ concerning the woman in the Thames. Mr. Holmes' assistance would surely be appreciated by the Yard.”

Watson breathed in with a silent curse. His damned leg was acting up again. The doctor adjusted his posture with a short jerk, and surprised himself when he answered in a calm, truthful voice.

“I assure you, Holmes will be working on it the moment he feels up to par again. He speaks of nothing else when he is aware, though I fear he would not do you much good in his current condition.”

Watson paused for a moment, then continued: “I would bid you for tea, but Holmes was very clear when he demanded I deny any visitors entrance, and I think I'd do best to follow his word if I want him to comply at all tonight.” He shook his head, “You know how he can get.”

Lestrade chuckled, “ _That_ I unfortunately do. However, I am most certain he will return to full health in good time with the aid of you by his side, Doctor. No apology needed. I best be going on either way.”

The inspector held his hand out.

“If you think it'd please him, do tell Mr. Holmes he's sorely needed once he gets well.”

Watson hesitated before taking the inspector’s hand. “I certainly will. Good day Inspector, take care.”

His palm was hot and drenched in sweat, but the inspector did not seem to notice.

“Will do,” Lestrade said. “And good day to you, Sir.”

The inspector tipped his hat and turned. Watson kept his smile plastered on his face as Lestrade walked away from the doorstep.  Once he felt the inspector was a safe distance away, Watson closed the door quickly, flattening his shaking hands over it once shut and locked.

Relief flooded his insides.

It had been nothing. Just a simple, polite visit during the man's off hours.

Holmes was safe.

But in what state, Watson could not know.

He had not heard other noises besides the one thump during his talk with the inspector, but Watson was certain Holmes had not simply been resting and waiting for him quietly on the bed.

The detective had been furiously struggling when Watson shut the door on him, and in Holmes’ eyes, Watson had recognized the same unpredictability and defiance that had led to the red marks and welts covering the man's backside.

No, he would most likely have to steer himself for another uncomfortable confrontation. The pleasantries Watson had intended for the day would have to be put off, unless Holmes, by some miracle, had ceased being difficult.

Watson reached the top of the stairs in a few strides.

He was relieved by the sight of Holmes once he opened the door and entered the room, his worries instantly calmed; but seeing the origin of the loud noise and its aftereffects was troubling.

Holmes had somehow succeeded in wrenching his uninjured foot out of the rope loop, and had rolled sideways off of the bed onto the cold wooden floor.

He was still tethered by his left ankle and the bonds around his arms were in place.

The detective had not been able to pull himself further away from the bed, though it was evident he had put up a great fight. Fresh burn marks reddened the pale skin beneath the rope that encircled his left ankle. His restrained leg was draped over the mattress awkwardly, while gravity forced the rest of Holmes’ body, upper torso and face down against the floor.

There was no chance the detective could pull himself back onto the mattress; he was stuck, body painfully contorted by the end of the bed. Holmes whimpered weakly into the scarf in his mouth, while he twitched and pressed further against the floor.

The man’s eyes were tightly shut, pushing tears out the corners, but he did not look to be seriously injured.

_This is completely unacceptable!_

What maddened impulses led to Holmes degrading himself in such a way, squirming along the floorboards and whimpering like a pitiful animal caught in a snare?

Was he truly so intent on speaking to the inspector? Did he still, even with Watson so devoted to attending to his every need, obsess over his business with the Yard?

Watson shook his head. _The poor man._

Yet, it was not despair that met Watson's eyes when Holmes turned his head to acknowledge his presence. The detective's pupils were wide and alight with fury.

Eyes locked on Watson's face, Holmes began twisting around on the floor anew, shouting irately through the thick fabric lodged in his mouth.

Watson looked away from Holmes, and surveyed the cluttered mess of documents and case-related objects strewn about the study room. There were piles on every available flat surface, papers plastered on the walls, strewn across ~~t~~ he floor, and stuffed into drawers and cupboards from which they seemed they were constantly trying to escape.

Apparently, there were still too many distractions for Holmes to handle, too much assaulting his mind and pulling at his attention from all sides: Lestrade, the case, his obligation to the Yard, all the notes and work-related scribbles.

Holmes had fooled himself into believing he needed these things to retain his sanity, that his mind and wit must be occupied every waking hour, while his bodily needs were pushed to the side and drowned in a vast pool of numbing pharmaceuticals and work. Always his work.

Holmes shouted at Watson again and kicked his cramped leg against the mattress.

The detective's disbelieving voice from days before sounded in Watson's head:

_“And what of the case!?”_

Holmes’ obsession was a curse ~~.~~

Watson knew. He had observed it for years: Holmes prowling around in the sitting room, mumbling equations, numbers, names, and minuscule details to himself in the dark, while his hands fiddled through papers and letters upon letters of work.

It may not be cocaine, but it had the effects of a narcotic substance on the man's psyche, nonetheless.

Holmes drew back with a growl and shot daggers at the doctor when Watson knelt and made to remove the scarf.

It was concerning. Even while finding himself in such a predicament, Holmes thought it a time for childish behavior.

The moment the fabric was out, Holmes assaulted Watson with flurry of words and accusations between a great deal of coughing and heaving:

“What did you _do?!_ What did- Let me up! Did you- Lestrade. Where is-”

His skin was reddened and warm to Watson's touch.

“Calm yourself, Holmes.”

“I will _not!_ He was here to see me! He-”

Holmes ranted and sputtered and fought to get away as Watson grabbed him around the middle, pulled his body up, and dumped him unceremoniously back onto the bed, effectively shutting the man up.

The doctor spoke quickly before the detective opened his mouth again.

“As a matter of fact, Holmes, the inspector was simply here to enquire about yesterday's ruckus.” He paused, then reached up and brushed a sweaty strand of hair from Holmes' forehead. “Your... _episode_ by the stairs must have alerted someone.”

Holmes narrowed his eyes as Watson continued, “I explained to him, and he was quite understanding. Very much so. He made no mention of the case.”

Watson’s quick decision to lie about that part of his conversation with the inspector was well-reasoned. The less Holmes worried about Lestrade and the Yard, the better for the both of them.

“Actually,” Watson continued, “he applauded your taking a rest from your work, and agreed it would be in the Yard's and your own best interests to submit to my care.” Watson smiled sweetly at his own words. He cupped Holmes' face with one hand and let the other rest on the detective's shaking arm.

“I told you, Holmes. You worry over nonsense.”

Holmes shook his head. “You lie!” His lips were twisted in a sneer, and he unsuccessfully tried to jerk his arm away from the grip, but Watson only tightened his fingers and let his nails sink into the bare flesh.

He was going to ignore Holmes’ insult for now.

Yes, Lestrade had asked for Holmes' assistance, but everything else the doctor ~~t~~ old the detective was true. Holmes _did_ need Watson's help in overcoming this most _difficult_ obsession. Lestrade had recognized the doctor's genuine intentions to care for Holmes, and agreed _he_ was the one best suited.

Watson’s voice was genuine and soft when he addressed the man again, “I assure you Holmes, I do not.”  He caressed the detective’s cheek with his free hand. Holmes scowled.

“Now,” Watson asked, “will you stop blabbering about the blasted case?”

His friend's expression was still sour. The childish way Holmes expressed his displeasure had not changed.

“Absolutely not! You can not expect me to-”

Watson twisted the detective’s arm upwards. The disobedient fire in Holmes’ eyes flickered out as he winced fearfully, and once again, attempted to pull away.

Watson felt mostly pity, but there was annoyance and anger too. Holmes simply _insisted_ on making things as difficult as possible for the both of them.

“I can and I _will!"_ He tightened his grip on the detective. “You seem incapable of seeing it yourself, but your unnatural infatuation regarding your work is rendering you unable to think clearly.” Watson's expression softened as he let his free hand trail down Holmes' reddened face again. “I speak not only as your lover, but as your doctor when I say this is a burden that needs to be unloaded from your mind.”

He received no reply from the man.

“Do you not care for your own well being at all!? What of _me_?” He let go of Holmes, threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “Of our _partnership?_ ”

Holmes looked to Watson as if he were completely lost, as if he had no idea at all how to respond. It was only a few seconds of silence, though, before he muttered a hoarse reply:

“More than anything else, Watson. You- You _know_ this...” There were neither trickery nor lies in the detective’s dark eyes. “But you cannot be serious.”

Watson stood up then, towering over Holmes as he released his hold on the man’s arm.

“I am quite serious,” he bit out in a frustrated voice. “The true question here is, will you be a stubborn fool, as always, and fight me on this matter, or will you let me assist you in getting rid of the objects that continue to poison your mind and the progress of our relationship?”

Holmes’ face became an unreadable mask, silently judging Watson. _Questioning_ him.

“It has become quite clear to me now, Holmes, that your problems facing common human interaction and your own bodily needs have manifested themselves in the worst of ways, and you're simply too conceited to acknowledge it.”

The doctorstarted pacing back and forth, hands waving about in the air.

“God, Holmes, I know as well as anyone that the work brings you peace, but you must see it for what it truly is.”

Holmes' mouth was tightly shut and his eyes had hardened. ~~  
~~

“It is but a crutch, my dear friend,” Watson continued. “You spend your every waking hour solving cases and working through other men’s and women's troubles, but you refuse to take even a single glance at your own.”

It was not only that Holmes refused to give up this obsession, Watson noted, but also that Holmes actually believed it was of the utmost importance _he_ be the one to do the work. In Holmes' mind, there was no one else fit to solve London’s problems.

Watson shook his head, and asked, “Do you really think London would crumble to, and that the sun would cease to rise if the _Great Sherlock Holmes_ wasn't there to look over it at all times?”

Holmes did not reply, only continued to bore into Watson with that same hardened stare.

_Very well._

The doctor turned from Holmes' silent form to the convoluted mess on the detective's writing desk. He could feel Holmes' gaze burning the back of his head as he gathered a random bundle of scribbled writing ~~.~~

He had no intention of destroying it.

Even if he did, it was not as if Holmes’ thoughts and calculations would be gone by the destruction of the paper they were on. He knew the detective and the power of his mind, his ability for retention, and that Holmes’ had it all catalogued in his head. Watson was no fool in that regard.

And it was not that he refused to see the good and importance of Holmes' work.

Surely, in time, Holmes would be allowed to take up cases again.

But right now, the distracting objects had to be removed from sight. A locked closet in another room, somewhere it couldn’t bother or tempt Holmes, would have to do.

Watson held up the papers, gesturing them toward Holmes. “If you will not speak to me or acknowledge this matter, I will take it upon myself to rid you of it.”

He heard it before he saw it.

Holmes had the gall to spit at him again, and Watson watched as the gobble traveled to the floor and landed a few inches from his shoes.

“ _That_ is what I make of your doctorly advice!” 

 _Unbelievable,_ Holmes’ astonishingly crude way of showing his displeasure when he didn’t get his way.

The offensive, gesture combined with the derisive tone of Holmes' voice, sent waves of rage through the doctor’s body. He threw the papers to the floor as he stomped towards the bed and snatched the scissors from the small table.

Holmes’ eyes widened, as he saw Watson’s expression and the scissors coming at him.

The rope around the detective’s ankle was cut, and Holmes immediately drew back.

“Wats-”

Watson yanked the detective up by his arms and shoved him to the floor, ignoring his yelps and groans. He wrapped his left hand around Holmes' bound wrists, and dug the other into the man's hair.

Barely exerting any effort, he dragged Holmes' writhing body across the floor, towards the dressing closet against the eastern wall.

Holmes screamed and shouted at him, “Damn you- let me go! _Stop!_ Don't you _dare-_ ” as he tried to stop the momentum, pushing his legs and feet against the floor.

The detective snarled when Watson shoved him into the closet, and dumped him in the bottom of it, coats and scarves softening the blow on Holmes' bare back.

Watson couldn't look at Holmes’ face. He was afraid to. He wasn't entirely sure _what_ he would do if he saw the disdain in Holmes’ eyes, or if Holmes spat at him again.

“ _You cannot do this to me!_ ”

The detective spluttered, red-faced, and scrambled against the floor with his bare feet. The hanging clothing fell and enveloped him like a woolen forest, obstructing his view. Furiously, Holmes tried to turn away to avoid them.

Watson grasped the handles of the heavy doors.

“ _Watson!_ ” Holmes pushed his bound hands against the coats bunched up behind his back, tried to find his footing and stand up.

The doctor ignored him.

He shut the doors and turned the key.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your lovely comments and kudos. I know waiting so long for an update sucks, but I don't ever stop working on it ( I just end up focusing on parts that wont happen until far off in the future), and I appreciate every comment I get though I'm sometimes bad at answering back <3 I don't want to jinx myself, but I have many parts of the next chapter written out so it shouldn't be super long before the next update. 
> 
> I've gotten some comments asking if the artist who drew the illustrations in chapter 16 has a tumblr; she does, but it's not 18+ and she is a bit paranoid about it being connected to this fic. She is considering setting up one for her adult art though, as we might also collaborate again, and if that happens I'll provide a link.


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